Hearts are Strong, Hearts are Kind
by aRegularJo
Summary: Interconnected series of snapshots into Don and Sloan's story. Because someone had to write it. Fluff of the highest order. Runs roughly parallel to S2 .
1. You Don't Even Have to Try

Hey there. So this ... Is fluff. A whole lot of it, wrapped thick in dialogue. These stories started as me working through the characters, getting to know their voices, and filling in their back stories for a much longer piece, with actual plot, that I'm working on. But these started to take over and are just so delightful and quick and easy that I thought I would share. I'm unclear how quickly I'll be updating, and I doubt that they will follow a chronological order. They presume that Don and Sloan start dating in November/December of 2011 (so, in show parlance, super-soon). I have every expectation that canon will run roughshod over them (potentially starting tonight), but I'm OK with that.

Title is from Ray LaMontagne's "You Are the Best Thing." I've been listening to him a lot as I think about the Newsroom. Characters are not mine. Many details from the back stories (Nobel Prize in economics, a dad who yells at squirrels, a dad with a long-term mistress) are freely and cavalierly borrowed from Sorkin with love as well.

* * *

The thing about this thing with Sloan is that once they actually determine that it's a thing, it's a big thing that doesn't seem like a big thing, which makes it almost a bigger thing (granted, determining that it's a thing _does_ take a while, and is kind of awkward). His relationship with Maggie always felt a little like two pieces from the same puzzle that looked like they should snap together but didn't, and the effort to try and make them go together was always kind of exhausting. But in his normal state of stupidity, he equated that feeling of effort — and he had never worked so hard in a relationship before — with something being a Big Thing (capital letters intentional).

But with Sloan, things just settle. Six weeks after he drunkenly kisses her during marathon coverage of Syria and the Greek economic collapse and the presidential race, he's buying kale and she's stocking his favorite beer, and things are so low-key that most of the office — his ex, in particular - doesn't seem to know what's going on. It's certainly not a secret — they come in and leave together often enough — but if he kisses her at work, it's in an office. Mac squeezes his arm once and says, out of the blue, "This is good for you. For both of you," and Elliot seems to think he's nice and appreciate that, but otherwise it's barely acknowledged.

He likes this. It's refreshing, to know where you stand in a relationship and where you want to stand in the relationship. It makes everything else so much easier, and more comfortable, and almost even empowering. It feels adult, and he's strangely not scared of the commitment. He's should be scared, but isn't, and that's kind of awesome.

So when he pops into her office to see what she's doing for lunch (which is early dinner, given their schedules) and she answers, "Going out with my mom, actually — I forgot she's in town for work," his first response is, "Can I come meet her?"

She cocks her head and the papers the folder she's holding slide out as her grip goes lax. As she starts to gather them up, she says, "Don — you've got a full — she's only in town for a few — you _want _to meet my mother?" She's skeptical-stunned at that.

And the goddamn thing is, he really, really does. He's seen her photo on Sloan's bookshelf, with her three sisters and her dad, and he wants to get to know her, and make her like him, and get to figure out more about what makes Sloan _Sloan_. He knows that her mother is Asian — Japanese, he assumes, given Sloan's command of the language — and very, very short, especially next to her very, very tall, very, very WASPy father. And that's it. That's all he knows. "Yeah. I do, actually. What's she in town for?"

"A conference," Sloan repeats, brow furrowed, as she continues to arrange the papers. More amused than exasperated, he gently takes them from her hands to alphabetize them for her, so that she'll look at him. She rests her hands on her lower back, appraising him.

"Oh yeah? What's she do?" he asks, tapping the stack of papers vertically on the desk before handing them back to her.

"She's a lawyer," she says, tucking the paper underneath her arm.

"What type of lawyer?"

"Human rights law," Sloan replies. She puts down the papers and moves to grab her trench coat, and he follows her. "She describes herself as a sex-positive feminist legal activist."

"Excuse me?" he asks, because he is _not _expecting that.

"She mostly focuses on sexual issues — women's rights to abortion, safe prenatal care, to _not_ be sold into sex slavery, condoms in third-world countries..."

"Sex."

"Sex," she states matter-of-factly. "That thing we do, about five to eight times a week, usually at night except for weekends, depending on if you fall asleep with your computer or not?"

"That was one time, and — seriously?"

"Yes. She grew up in San Francisco in the Sixties. Kind of inevitable, I guess."

"What's your dad do again?" Because it's beginning to be clear he's going to have to seriously prep for meeting him.

"He's an economist," she raises a shoulder at his raised eyebrows. "My upbringing was not weird at _all_."

"Do you not want me to meet your mom? Because it's completely fine if you don't," and he means that.

She chooses her words carefully. "The last guy — the only guy, actually — that my mother has met was Topher," she starts, referring to the scummy stockbroker ex-fiance she broke up with two years ago. "And Topher didn't meet either of my parents until we'd been dating for a year. _And_ he met my dad first, _and_ my dad is much less scary. So knowing that, if you don't want to meet her, I understand —"

"That's not what I asked," he interrupts, taking a step into her space. "I know this is a thing, meeting the mom, I know that's a thing. And if you don't want to do that thing yet, I get it. That's OK. I just want you to know that when you want me to, I would like to meet your mom." He doesn't know where these words are coming from — god only knows he's never felt this way about meeting anyone else's mom, and if he knew that today was the day he was going to feel this way, he would've put on a newer flannel shirt and maybe even tried to do something with his hair — but whatever. He means it. He wants this.

She starts to break out into one of those crazy whole-face smiles he doesn't get enough of, and he starts to grin back because he knows she'll say OK, and instead of waiting for words he just pulls her hips to him and starts kissing her. But before it gets very fair, the door opens, and she jumps back, surprised, "Mom! Hi," she steps away from Don, and he swallows a smirk and shoves his hands in his pockets, because that wasn't how he actually envisioned meeting her mom. "I thought I told you to meet me at the restaurant."

"You did," her mother says breezily. "But my hotel was right around the corner, so I thought, hey! Why don't I see where my important and successful daughter seems to spend all her time," she smiles at him, a hint of bite at the corners. "Now I think I know why she spends so much time here, though."

"Mom, this is Don Keefer, the executive producer of _Right Now With Elliot Hirsch_ …" she trails off. "And my ... boyfriend," she checks with him, testing out the word, and he shrugs in agreement. It's what he is. There's tacit agreement, and there's no time to date anyone else, and they spend every night together, but he actually doesn't think he's heard her use that phrase yet. "Don, my mother, Nanami Sabbith."

"Call me Nami," she says, holding out a hand. She is tiny, with a Hillary Clinton-type coif and a Hillary Clinton-type pantsuit. He suspects that she probably actually knows Hillary Clinton. Sloan, who is not that tall, towers over her in her three-inch heels. "Will you be joining us for what my daughter refers to as lunch?"

"Well, I would like to," he says. "If that's alright with you." He feels the need to ask her permission.

"Of course. I look forward to learning more about you. Or anything about you, really, given that I didn't know you existed until I saw you tonguing Sloan," she smiles too pleasantly, and he is a little scared.

"We should get going, then," Sloan says quickly. "We both need to be back by seven." He helps her put her coat on, and then holds the door for them, because he would like to make a good first impression. Her mother leads the way out, and as he puts his arm around her, she twists to whisper in his ear: "Remember she will _gladly_ explain, in detail, the process of female circumcision. Do _not_ ask her about her work unless you want details."

He's turned his own face so that the chances of her being overheard are diminished, and as they're walking down the corridor like this, all twisted up and cheek-to-cheek and secret-y, he notices Maggie. He doesn't even have time to make eye contact with her, but she stops in her tracks and he can see her putting two and two together. But soon enough they're out the door, and Sloan, who has slipped her hand between their bodies to take his, starts directing her mother the two blocks to Sushi Zen. Sloan makes small talk about the conference, asks about her mother's presentation, and suddenly they're at the restaurant.

"Your father and I had dinner with Spencer last weekend," Nami says as they take their seats. "Brent is going to be transferred to the D.C. branch soon, they think. They're coming out next month to look at houses."

"I can't imagine Spence in winter," Sloan says, in a forcefully cheery voice. "She's the most stereotypical California girl."

"You lived in New York for a while, though, right?" he asks, surreptitiously putting his hand on her thigh, though he's pretty sure Nami notices. Still, Sloan relaxes. He knew that she'd gone to high school in California, but got the feeling she grew up in New York.

"We did, but left when she was in first grade for Japan, and then we moved to California when she was in sixth grade. And she moved to L.A. for college and hasn't left since. I don't think she's owned a winter jacket since the early Nineties."

"She hasn't," Nami says, smiling. "I don't even know if she owns gloves. So, Don, do you have any siblings?"

"Three, two brothers and a sister," he says. "Mitch works in real estate in Philadelphia, where we grew up. He's got three kids. Adam's a freshman at Cornell, and Lily's a sophomore in high school."

"Much younger," Nami observes, snapping her chopsticks apart.

"Half-siblings," he amends.

"Your parents are divorced?" she asks.

"No, my dad had a heart attack." He decides he should probably tell the whole story, though, so he amends, "But Adam and Lily are his kids anyways. I didn't know about them until they were in elementary school and he had passed away." Sloan actually doesn't know this part, and her hand moves to cover his. "Great kids, though."

Nami raises her eyebrow. "Sounds like an admirable move."

He shrugs. "It was easier to get to know them than to be angry at a dead guy. So," he cracks open his menu. "What should we order?"

Sushi Zen is their go-to because it's quick, and he manages to make Nami laugh four times during her interrogation, which he considers a success. He decides he likes Nami: she's sharp, very observant and aware, and wants the best for her daughter, even though she made a few jokes at Sloan's expense. She's much more outgoing than Sloan, and even more direct, if that is possible. Nami asks a thousand too-personal questions (how working together affected their jobs, whether or not he'd ever been arrested, details about his first relationship) but he can tell Sloan loves her mom a lot. He pays, which pleases Nami and makes Sloan roll her eyes.

As they're walking back, Nami announces her intention to stay through the show and watch, which Sloan seems to have no choice but to agree to. Once they're back at ACN, though, he has to go work with his team for Elliot's show while Sloan needs to prep for News Night. Nami gives him a hug and makes it clear that she will be stopping by to say good-bye later — he presumes _after_ she's cross-examined Sloan.

Post-rundown, he's catching up on the 98 emails he received while gone and looking at the final draft of the night's script, four cable networks humming in the background of his office, when a shadow crosses his door. Assuming it's one of his APs, he yells, "Yo! No locks here!"

Instead of one of _his_ APs, though, it's one of Mac's: Maggie. Crappity-crap-crap-crap. "Hey," she says, wringing her wrists as she stands in his doorway.

And even though he knows _exactly_ what she wants, he goes, "Mags. What's up?"

She nods her whole body a few times before speaking. "Not much," she says.

He and Maggie had tried living together, had made it all of two weeks. After Jim had left, and he'd seen the YouTube video, the writing was on the wall. She had managed to complete the move-out in one day.

"I saw you guys got Gingrich's spox, nice get," he says, tapping his pen.

"Will's excited," she says, almost automatically. "I just — I had a wondering. I saw — I saw you and Sloan and a woman who looked a lot like Sloan but older, and I'm not just saying that because she's Asian and Sloan is somewhat Asian, I actually didn't know Sloan was Asian until Neal said so. But they actually had very similar noses and cheek structure —"

"That was Sloan's mother," he cuts in, knowing that these things could last forever. "Her mother's in town for work."

"Oh. That was, in fact, my first logical deduction," Maggie says, hesitant and blushing. "And you and Sloan —"

"We were taking her mom out to dinner before the show."

"And that was my second logical deduction, based on the time and that you were wearing jackets. You were _both_ taking her out, though—"

He decides to just confront it. Letting her dangle might sound satisfying, given how their relationship ended, but it's really not. "We were both taking her out because Sloan and I are dating and I thought I should get to know her mom."

"Wow," Maggie says, taken aback. "That was —I mean, that was my third logical deduction, but I mean — you said that. Out loud. Pretty normally. In a normal tone of voice, I mean."

He decides to give her another break. "Yeah. We've been seeing each other for a while now."

"A while," Maggie trails off, because the time between September and January really isn't that much of a while.

"For about six weeks."

"So actually not that much of a while," Maggie says.

He shrugs. "Depends on the definition, Maggie."

"True. Are you … That's great, first. Sloan's great."

"Thanks," he says, because Sloan is _awesome_, but he adds, apologetically, "We've kind of been keeping it a bit under wraps, because, you know, the work environment."

"Me," she says flatly.

"You. Will. Mac. Elliot. Charlie wouldn't be super-thrilled, I'll bet. Sloan is sometimes is on my show. A lot of things make up the work environment, so because of those lots of things we decided to, you know, _not_ make out in the control room."

"You know, I thought it was weird you were coming in so early. And that she was staying so late. So you guys are coming in together and leaving together, which means you're spending every night together, and you're meeting her mom after six weeks. That's … that's really serious. That's, like, a serious commitment. A really _fast _serious commitment, I mean, you didn't want to meet my parents after _four months_ —"

"Maggie, isn't your show on the air?" They _really_ don't need to go down this road.

"You're right. It is," she says, then straightens her spine, which can only mean one of her Girl Friday speeches. He used to find them adorable, now he just finds them tiring. "Anyways. I'm — I'm never going to be able to actually make up for the way I treated you and how … how I messed everything up. But I'm … really happy that you're happy. I really, really am."

"Maggie," he breaks in, "We weren't working. We weren't. At all. It was _scary, _how fucking _bad _we were at the end. I mean — it was over before I asked you to move in with me. Asking you … that was desperate, of me. We were _so _fucked up. I wanted it, to work, with you, really badly, but just because I wanted _it_ to work. And instead of talking about it and trying to work out, or, you know, cutting loose … I wanted it to work, and it _wasn't. _ We stayed together too long. We wanted to be more serious than we actually were. And that was mostly my fault. So I'm sorry. So … quit beating yourself up about that."

Maggie flails a little bit. Finally, she just says, "Thank you." He nods and smiles and she starts to leave and he gets back to his script, when she turns around and says, "Actually, can I ask you one more thing?"

He leans back in his chair, because she is clearly not leaving until he listens to her, and says, "If you don't think Mac will kill you for not doing your job, sure."

"Is it me?"

"Is what you?"

"Me. Is this because of me?"

"Me and Sloan? No." He _really_ doesn't want to get into it, because he is Happy. Sloan is harder to date than Maggie, in a _lot_ of ways, but also much, much easier. Sloan is a more challenging person, for him, than Maggie. She sometimes says inappropriate things — she said _I love you waitnoItakethatback _on their second real date — and she works too hard, and doesn't back down from an argument, and she's smarter than him and somehow more stubborn, and she's sometimes distant and hard to read and doesn't really like to relax. But the relationship _itself_ is a lot simpler. He's not worried about how she feels about him, or that she might like another guy more, or that he's somehow not giving her what she needs. The biggest argument they've had thus far is when she wanted to use his legs to keep her freezing-cold feet warm, and he just wanted her to put a damn pair of socks on. He knows they'll have a bigger fight, eventually, but he and Maggie could fight about every damn thing. He doesn't know if it's age — Christ, he's 34 — or the experience of having dated Maggie, or their personalities, but the actual act of being with Sloan is much easier. It just feels ... more equal.

"_No,_ of course not," she replies, and the way she rolls her eyes, he's almost offended. "Us. And … Jim. And Lisa. It's just lately, I kind of feel like I'm the type of person that repels perfectly nice people."

"You're a perfectly nice person," he says, wishing he could do his work.

"I know!" she says. "I buy coffee for homeless guys and volunteer at soup kitchens on Thanksgiving. But that's different. Do I keep pushing people away?"

"I _just_ said that the end of our relationship was both of our faults. I would recommend you leave it at that."

"Right, but I moved in with you instead of breaking up with you, even though I knew I had … feelings toward Jim. But _you're_ meeting Sloan's mom after six weeks of dating, when you would barely say _hi_ to my parents after four _months_. Jim went on the campaign trail to get away from me. Lisa got a subletter on Craigslist that smells like bananas and moved to Bushwick."

"Jim went on the campaign trail because, as I recall, you told him and an entire bus full of crazy tourists that you wanted to break up with _me_ for _him _and then you _changed your mind_," he says, getting irritated. "And _then_ you lied to his girlfriend about everything. So yeah, in those examples? You don't look so hot. I don't get what you're trying to ask me though."

"_Do I drive people away?_"

He sighs, pushing down his pen. "Look, let's take you and me off the table, because you apologized and I apologized and we're moving on and I'm happy," he emphasizes the _happy_. "And with Jim and Lisa — you gotta ask them. And you have to figure out what you _really_ want, and how you want to say it. Because guys? In general? Don't do well with indecision. They need things in black and white. We're simple that way. OK? Now, go do work. Your show is, like, half over."

She's a little struck. "You really like her, don't you?"

He pauses. "_Go_, Maggie."

She _finally_ leaves, thank God, and he finishes the script, calls two field producers to confirm their times and finds his graphics editors to check out their work. Then he wanders down to watch Sloan's piece from behind the TelePrompTer (no way he's going into the control room with Mama Nami), notes for Elliot's segments in hand. As Sloan hops off the chair post-segment, she catches his eye and smiles.

"Looking good up there," he says, following her as she struts off.

"You came in to hear me say about three sentences," she retorts as they head to her office.

"All of which were highly intelligent insights into the Greek economy. Where's your mom?" he says, looking around behind him.

"She'll want to finish watching the show. She has a thing for Will."

"Did you tell Mac?" he jokes as she flips on the lights in her office.

"Her 'thing' is that she wants to ask him questions about his relationship with his father and whether or not his mother hugged him enough as a child."

He winces. Less cool. "Speaking of psychoanalysis, how do you think dinner with your mom went?"

She kicks off her shoes and sits on the edge of her desk, smirking. "Well, actually."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She thought I looked satisfied."

"Why wouldn't you be satisfied? You have a job you like, a killer apartment …"

She cocks her head. "Not _that_ kind of satisfied, Stanley Straightlaced."

_Oh._ "Oh. You mean — like, wow. What did she say, exactly?"

"'Sloan, he seems nice. You look very satisfied,'" Sloan recites as he reddens. "Seriously. You're really lucky you missed my mother's Sex Ed 101. It involved props." As he's trying to imagine what that possibly entails, she grabs her gym bag from her desk and sheds her blazer jacket and skirt, exchanging them for a pair of black jeans and a Duke zip-up over her navy cami. "Is your show locked down yet?" She yanks her hair back in a clear 'going home, want bed,' do, and pulls her ACN News cap on top.

"Mostly. Are you going to stick around?"

"Mmm, I kind of want to head home early and watch from the comfort of bed? My mom exhausted me," she looks up from pulling on her boots. "Is that OK?"

Though Maggie says they come in together regularly, the actually don't do it super-frequently, since Sloan gets in freakishly early to go to the gym. But she has honestly stayed through the end of his show every night, or met him at Hang Chew's, since spending the night together went from periodic to frequent to a matter of course. Besides being just nice having her close, this has also meant that they haven't exchanged keys. He knows her laundry is in his machine and her leftover cheesecake is in his fridge, so they're definitely going there tonight. But she doesn't have a key.

"Yeah, sure," he says, pulling out his key ring clumsily. " Here. I should — I'll make you one tomorrow. You should have a key."

She laughs, a little awkwardly, sifting the keys into her fingers. They clink. "That would be the practical thing to do."

He kisses her. "Sounds good. Should I say good-bye to your mom?"

She checks the clock. "Yeah, if want to. And if you've got a minute." She raises her eyebrows apologetically. "Though you really shouldn't, since you should have a job to do."

He puts his hands on her shoulders and spins her out of the room. "All the time in the world."

"That's not comforting," she replies. "You're a decently important person."

"So I probably have 90 seconds. But I've already given Elliot his text for approval. I am ahead of the curve tonight."

"Look at you, all star," she teases, pushing open the door to the control room. Will is wrapping up for the evening, and Nami is standing close to Mac.

"Hey Mom. What'd you think of the show?"

"There's a great deal more pacing than I anticipated," she remarked. She looked at Don. "Do you pace when you're producing a show, Don?"

"Oh yeah. One time Sloan caused me to basically throw my headset."

"Wait when was that? I'm fantastic."

He stares at her. "Are you kidding me? Fukushima?"

"Oh. Yeah, that was not such a good night." She grimaced. "Anyways, Mom, I wanted to introduce to Will, and then I'll take you back to your hotel, how's that sound?"

"Yeah, and I have to get ready for the 10 o'clock, but I just wanted to say that it was great to meet you."

"It was nice to meet you as well, Don. I will be accompanying my husband back to New York next month; hopefully we will see you then."

"Oh, yeah? What brings you back east?"

"Sloan's father will be testifying in front of the U.N. Economic and Social Council on sustainable economic development models."

He's a little taken aback, and makes a note to google her father. "Wow. That sounds exciting. We'll see you then," he smiles. "Alright, I gotta run."

"See you later," Sloan says, and he kisses her cheek.

As they watch them walk out, Mac punches him in the shoulder. "She likes you! She really, really likes you!"

"Please, try and sound more surprised," he says dryly. He really has to go find Elliot.

"I'm happy! Whose idea was dinner? That was big. This is good, Don. This is _so _good."

"You're like a British Laker Girl, you know."

"I could do a jig," she crows. "I called it! I am like Vanna White, revealing truth."

He stares at her. "That's a terrible metaphor," he says.

"Not my best," she agrees.

"Question," he asks. "Sloan's father — do you know what he does, exactly?"

She stares at him. "You've heard of microfinance?"

"Of course," he says.

"He made it scalable, among a few other things," she says. "So he won the Nobel Prize. He's also the dean of Stanford's business school and the former head of Goldman Sachs' Asia offices. Joseph Stiglitz is her godfather. Both Ben Bernanke and Paul Krugman were in her parents' wedding. It was probably the last time they actually got along, man."

He stares. "How did I not know this?"

"I don't know," Mac replies. "It's on her Wikipedia page."

"I'm not going to wikipedia my … Sloan."

"Your Sloan?" Mac smirks at his reluctance to say girlfriend, which is entirely predicated on the fact that they are still in the control room. "And there you go. That's why you didn't know."

"She said he was _less_ scary!"

"Well, yeah, because she's his favorite," Mac reasons. "And they just kind of talk economic policy in Japanese the whole time, according to her. For everyone else he's probably a little intimidating, though."

He rolls his eyes. "Just a little. I'm going to get Elliot ready."

Elliot is already sitting in the chair, reviewing his notes, since Terri's show is routed out of Washington. "Did you know Sloan's dad had a Nobel Prize in Economics?" he asks without preamble.

Without looking up, Elliot says, "Well, yeah. It's on her Wikipedia page."

"I give up," Don mutters.

He heads home as soon as he can that night, texting Sloan to unlock the door shortly before midnight. He finds her (as he could have predicted) already in the bedroom, one of his commandeered flannel button-downs and her trendy hipster glasses on, two economic journals (her 'bedtime reading') and four newspapers around her (only two in English), her laptop open, the TV on, tea and the half-eaten piece of cheesecake on the floor on her side of the bed.

"Good show," she smiles. "Elliot did really well with the phone hacking story."

"Thanks," he says, stropping down to his boxers and climbing into the bed next to her. "What do we have here?" He picks up one of the newspapers written in Japanese and pretends to read it. She curls up and puts her chin on his shoulder as she reads the text to him, in Japanese. After a few paragraphs he turns and kisses her temple. "How long did you guys live in Japan?" he says.

"Five years," she says. "Fourth grade through eighth grade for me. And then I did a year abroad there in college and two, altogether, during my Ph.D."

"Your two Ph.D.s," he says.

"Yeah, but I did them concurrently," she says, as if that makes it somehow less impressive that she has a doctorate in economics and another in finance.

"What was it like, living there?"

She shrugs. "Depends on the time. When we were younger, it was just like being in America, except for family vacations we would go to Indonesia."

"Did you go to a Japanese school?" he thinks about the ones he's seen, the long rows of miserable-looking students.

"God no. We went to the international _lycee_ — except for the Japanese class, our classes were all in French and English, one day English, one day French. We had to go to Japanese school all day on Saturdays, though. I hated it."

"You got fluent with once a week lessons?"

"The lessons were just for reading and writing. We always spoke it at home, even when we were living in the U.S. It was important for my mother."

"Did she grow up in Japan?" he hadn't detected an accent.

"No," she sighs. "Her mom was born in Japan, but moved to San Francisco in the 30s. Her dad was born in the U.S. to Japanese immigrants. They were both raised in exclusively Japanese communities, and they met while they were in the camps."

"The internment camps."

"Yeah. So they raised my mom and her brothers to be fluent in Japanese, as kind of a fuck you, I think. Then my dad learned Japanese starting in high school, so we all spoke Japanese growing up. When my dad got the job in Japan, they thought it would be good for us," she cocks her head. "Why all the questions?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "I liked meeting your mom today."

"She really liked you," she says. "I didn't know about your dad. You didn't have to tell her." She leans back slightly, puts a thin arm on the headboard. "I'm sorry. I should have stopped her."

"It's not your fault, I never told you," he says reasonably. She's patient and waits for him to continue. "He had a real-estate development business, he built malls around Philadelphia in the 70s and 80s. He and my mom got married because she was Catholic and got pregnant with me. They were never particularly happy together," he sighs. "I'm pretty sure he cheated throughout their marriage, but his relationship with Gina was pretty permanent — about 12 years, I think. They broke up when their kids were little and Mitch and I were in college, and he died a few years later. She came to the funeral, turns out my mom knew about her … Yeah. It wasn't pretty," he sighs. "Adam was nine, Lily was six."

"And you wanted to have a relationship with them?"

"I mean, we all hated him for it. My mom was just … devastated. And I figured … I thought we would still hate him, and that wouldn't be good since it would just make everyone miserable. But if we got to know them as real people, kids are generally cool — you know, when they're not being brats — and that way I wouldn't hate them or my dad. Plus Gina was pretty freaking overwhelmed — even though they'd split a few years earlier, my dad had still been providing for them, and then he didn't put them in his will, obviously. So she needed all the free babysitting they could get."

She kisses him softly. "That was … That's awesome. How are they now?"

"They're good. My mom still isn't crazy about them, but both she and Gina have remarried, or married, in Gina's case, so that makes it easier. They basically treat each other as their ex-husband's other ex-wife. Mitch took the longest to warm up to them. He had just gotten engaged when Dad died, and I think it kind of took a lot out of him, you know? But Melanie really helped him through that, and now Lily babysits for their kids. Adam's at Cornell. He's pretty much a bro — he played lax in high school, wants to go to law school, pledged Kappa Sig, looks really stupid in popped collars a lot. But he's a good kid. Lily's a lot artsier. She wants to go to NYU and drink a lot of coffee, you know? Her nails are either neon green or black and she writes really bad poetry but is actually pretty good artist."

They've rarely talked about family or friends, have just had this really insular, intense relationship, one that's their apartments and Hang Chew's and ACN and sometimes a really expensive Japanese place, and he honestly knows very little beyond what he knew before they started dating. It's nice. He wants to learn more. "What about your sisters? There are three, right?"

"Yeah," she rolls her eyes. "I'm the oldest. Spencer is two years younger than I am. She's the one that can't handle cold weather. She went to UCLA, did Teach For America right out of college. She's the founding principal at an all-girls high school in South L.A. now. Her husband, Brent, is a lawyer. They have a two-year old daughter, Hanna. They want a big family, so we keep expecting them to announce they're pregnant again. And then there are the twins … Sutton and Sawyer."

"Sloan, Spencer, Sutton, and Sawyer Sabbith," he winces.

"My grandmother is an old-school WASP — Miss Porter's, Radcliffe, DAR. I think my mom was trying to stick it to her. Plus, once you have a Sloan and a Spencer you can't just have a Hillary or an Alex, you know? So, Sutton and Sawyer," she laughs. "They're the youngest — they just turned twenty-five," she sighs. "Sutton just started medical school, at Harvard. She did the Peace Corps right out of Stanford. She wants to cure infectious diseases. Sawyer is getting a Ph.D. in chemical engineering after getting a Master's in urban design, all at MIT. _She_ wants to end pollution."

"So if your mom is the scary one, what's your dad like?"

She wrinkles her nose. "He's a lot like me, I think. Give him an econ journal and he's happy for hours. Mom is definitely in charge of _everything_ at home. Dad's a big dork — he's lived in California for almost 20 years but he doesn't have a clue who the Kardashians are. He works too much. When he's not working, he likes to play golf and cricket in our front yard. He rolls his own sushi while wearing a kimono and gardens and collects wine bottles and likes first editions of Dickens. He's this goofball academic in dad jeans, yelling at the squirrels in the gutters."

"And he's the dean at Stanford's business school?"

She's quiet. "Did you read my Wikipedia page or talk to Kenzie?"

"Both," he admits, because he did scroll through her Wikipedia page during a pre-taped segment during Elliot's show.

"Yeah. I mean, he works hard, is really smart, and loves what he does. And a lot of unexpected, good stuff followed."

"Nobel Prize is pretty good stuff."

"I swear, you meet him, and the first three things he'll talk about are the squirrels in the gutters, Hanna, and how my mother called his secretary and got the candy bowl replaced with a fruit bowl."

"And the fourth?"

"How to solve poverty in Africa."

"He probably has some pretty good ideas."

"He thinks he does," she laughs, then reconsiders. "He does." She leans over to kiss him, and he starts unbuttoning the buttons on her (_his_) shirt to slide his hands down around her hips.

"So he's coming to town in a few months."

She pulls back, slightly annoyed. "Ok, a — I didn't know that till my mom mentioned it today and b — seriously? Your hand is _down my shirt_ and you want to talk about my dad?" She shoves his shoulder. "Not cool."

He laughs, flipping them as he works the shirt off her shoulders. "Won't happen again," he promises.

* * *

**Thoughts? Please let me know! And apologies for the cavities.  
**


	2. Inside You There's a Strength that Lies

Hey all! Thanks so much for the great response to the first installment of these one-shots. I'm super happy there are other Sloan/Don fans out there. This one takes place in approximately June 2013, so a few years in the future of both the show and the first one shot (There will be others that fill in what happens between winter 2011 and this piece, don't worry). When this one takes place, a few things have changed between Sloan and Don, which will be readily explained :).

Hopefully will have another one up later this week, and am still slowly plugging away at the longer piece these feed into. In the meantime, feel free to check out 'Smug' and 'Let's Get Ready to Rumble,' my Sloan/Don season 2 filler pieces!

As per usual, I own nothing. References and characters freely borrowed with love. ~Jo.

* * *

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

Sloan stares at the three little sticks, as if their tiny symbols were going to change through her telekinetic powers. Nope. Still all the same.

_Fuck_. She knew she should be asking how the hell this happened, but she was pretty sure she already knew: The 25-hour plane ride to Thailand for their honeymoon last month, plus the time difference, meant she'd taken her pill at the wrong time. Hell, it probably meant she'd taken multiple pills at the wrong time. She had never been good with time changes. Her mother would find this hilarious.

She exits their bathroom numbly, heading to the kitchen. Wine would be great right now, but is obviously out of the question. She roots around for some non-caffeinated tea and somehow manages to brew it without burning herself. She sits on the new couch, flipping through an old issue of _The Economist_ to focus her. At least the kitchen renovation is done now — she's pretty sure that the fumes wouldn't be good for a baby.

_Baby_. Christ. She and Don had talked about kids a few times, of course, were clear on the fact that, eventually, yeah, one or two would probably be nice. But they had barely been married six months. This child would be born after seventeen months of marriage, give or take. They had made it from September to freaking May. She wasn't the type of woman to stress about her biological clock; had assumed they would have years before thinking about this decision. She, in fact, had always had a sneaking suspicion that she had a hostile uterus. She didn't know why; she just did. Apparently not.

She's on her third issue of the _Economist_, still sipping the herbal tea, when Don comes home. "Sloan?" he calls. "I thought we were meeting at Hang Chew's — everything alright?"

"Yeah," she says quickly, sitting up. "I just got there and got super tired, so I came home."

"Oh. You didn't text, so I stopped by there and ordered a drink before I realized —"

"No, it's fine. It was silly of me." Truthfully, Kenzie's bitching about cramps and 'reminders of womanhood' and how it was 'so unfair since she obviously was never going to be a mother, because stupid Will McAvoy ruined her,' had cued Sloan up to do some math, and then immediately spit her gin and tonic out on the counter before running out to go to Duane Reade. "The show looked good."

"Yeah," he says, cocking his head at her. "Are you alright? You're acting a little …"

"A little what?"

"Defensive?" he tries, trying to find a non-offensive way of saying 'weird.'

She opens her mouth to speak, but can't, and he goes, "Okay, Sloan, _words_."

"IthinkI'mpregnant," she tries.

"What now?"

"I said, I think I'm pregnant," she tries more slowly. At his stunned look, she says, "With a child."

"Whoa. What —," he says, sinking down on the couch next to her. His jaw is hanging open. Subconsciously she throws her calves over his lap and he begins to massage them, almost rotely. "I … Not what I thought you were going to say," he smiles, and she gets the feeling that he's actually excited, or going to be excited pretty soon, and she relaxes slightly.

"What did you think I was going to say?"

"I honestly had not thought that far in advance, but safe to say not that," he squeezes her knee gently. "That's amazing. How sure are you?"

"There are three tests in the bathroom that all say yes."

"Wow," he breathes. "How far … How? When?" he has this glazed-over, can't-believe-it look on his face, like someone just gave him irrefutable proof that Santa is real.

"I think it was Thailand," she says. "The flying, the time change, I'm pretty sure I didn't take a lot of the pills when I was supposed to. I need to make an appointment to be sure, but that was over a month ago." She searches his face. "Are you … okay with this?"

"Are you kidding?" he shifts so that he can cradle her face. "This is amazing. Yes. This is fantastic."

"You're not …" she trails off. She's not sure what she means, exactly. She feels like she should be panicking more, and she's _not. _Maybe it was better this way. Knowing both of them, if she didn't get accidentally knocked up, they would have talked and debated and analyzed the decision for so long they would have been past the parenting window.

"Not what?"

"We haven't even been married a year," she points out.

"So what? We didn't even date for a year. We move fast."

"That's what I'm saying. It's crazy. Not bad, but crazy. We'll have an eight month old when we hit our third anniversary of our first date. You're not worried that it's too fast?"

"No," he kisses her softly. "Absolutely not. Because we've got this, Sloan. You and me. We've got this," he kisses her again, more deeply. "This is fantastic." And she believes him.

She calls her gynecologist the next day and schedules an appointment for a week later. She tells Don he shouldn't come, in case she's not pregnant, but he's adamant that he's going to make it. The argument doesn't matter, because Baby Keefer makes its presence known two days later, when she vaults from bed at 5 a.m. with morning sickness.

"You did this," she rasps, only half-joking, when Don manages to catch up with her.

He pours her a glass of water and hands it to her, then sits down, back against the tub. "How do you feel?"

She accepts the water gratefully and scrunches her nose. "Not great," she admits. "But not terrible." Mostly she just feels queasy. She touches her forehead. That hurts too.

"Do you want crackers or anything?"

"Do we own crackers?" Don is a decent cook (she is not), but they are notoriously bad at buying groceries. That will have to change, once there's a kid around.

"The bodega is 24/7," he points out.

"I'm not sending you out at five in the morning to get crackers, you'll get mugged."

"I got you pregnant, I'm not going to leave the mother of my child miserable and nauseated at five in the morning."

"That's kind of sexist and kind of sweet," she says, standing. She puts a hand out to pull him up as well. "I think we have some bread that is not moldy. I'm going to make some toast."

"I'll make it."

"Don, this could go on for months. One of us has to be not-exhausted at work. And be prepared to do the night shift when this body-snatcher arrives." They cross through the living room, where Smith is lying on the sofa. He really shouldn't be doing that. Whatever.

"I have seven months to make up the sleep," Don says, rooting around in the fridge for the remaining two pieces of wheat bread. He pops them in the and leans against the counter. "What about ginger ale? Can you have ginger ale?"

"I have no idea whether or I can have ginger ale, but we don't own it, so I can't have it now," she points out. "But we should probably buy a book or something."

"We can pick one up on the way to work."

"Oh god, work," she says. "What if I puke on air?"

"It's _morning_ sickness."

"Both my mom and Spence had it all day - they'd be nauseated or queasy all day and then throw up at least once a day. Mom said hers was whenever, Spencer's was mostly in the late afternoon or early evening."

"Then why do they call it morning sickness?" he appears to be genuinely betrayed by the English language. The toast pops, and he quickly plates it. "Do you want butter?"

The thought of butter makes her stomach turn, so she quickly shakes her head. He slides her the plate as is. "Thanks," she says, taking a tiny bite. Her stomach roils again and she shakes her head. "Maybe I should just head in."

"Are you kidding me? And do what?" he asks skeptically.

"The gym? Write my script?"

"Ok, we're eating toast in the kitchen at 5:24 because nausea woke you up, and you want to go exercise? Can we at least agree you don't work out until we go to the doctor's on Monday?"

"That's probably wise," she agrees, but she's not tired. In fact, she now feels like she had an energy drink, despite the fact that she just threw up and is practically shaking with nausea. "Seriously though: What if I get sick at work?"

He shrugs. "Didn't you just say you probably would, at the very least, not feel that great?"

"No, but what if I am _on air_ and I feel the need to toss my cookies?" she tests another one feels better. "I don't want to tell anyone yet. Aren't you supposed to wait until 12 weeks? That's at least a month off. If I throw up on air, Will McAvoy will have me made in under 30 seconds."

"I'm not sure we'll last another month or six weeks with him and MacKenzie and Elliot and Charlie, but I don't think we should _tell_ anyone, especially before the doctor's," he rubs a hand down his face and sighs.

"You should go back to bed," she says, putting her hand over his. She knows he's exhausted.

"_You_ should go back to bed, you're growing a person. That sounds tiring."

"_I_ always go into work by 7, at the latest, and you don't get in till 10. So I'm going in soon anyways and just want to google what I'm picking up so I don't, you know, puke all over Will."

"You have insane willpower, so I don't think you're actually in danger of that," he says. "We could call your mom?"

"At 2 a.m. California time? And ask her what?"

"Not _right_ now, but she was pregnant three times. She probably knows something about the morning sickness."

She ponders for a minute before shaking her head. "Yes, you're right, but I want to wait until we talk to the doctor."

"Right, but I don't want you to be miserable for the next four days."

"We have an appointment Monday, and I feel fine now," she lies.

"That's bullshit," he drawls.

"I do, though," she ponders. "Spence said it just felt like you were on a ship for three months, and sometimes you threw up. That's not that bad."

"Just promise me you'll take it easy, okay? Maybe we get a couch in your office or something. This probably won't be easy, being pregnant and working the hours you work."

"You think I should cut back?" she asks, reflexively gearing up for a fight.

"_No_. But I want you to work smart — sit down when you need to sit down, eat crackers when you need to eat crackers, and _tell_ someone if you're not feeling well."

"That sounds fair," she says, kissing him lightly. "Let's go away for the weekend."

"Away?"

"Yeah. Two fewer days for me to slip. And starting Monday, when we leave the doctor's, we are someone's _parents. _This is the last weekend of you and me, kid."

He smiles. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't care. Poconos? Long Beach Island? Newport? I can look for hotels today at work." She knows the next year — hell, the rest of their lives — suddenly just got busier, and she just wants to get away.

"All of those sound great," he says, and looks at the clock. Just after 5:30. "How are you feeling? You wanna go back to sleep for an hour?"

She really does just want to go to work, but she can tell it will probably start an argument with Don; besides, _he_ needs to sleep, and he won't if she won't. "Yeah. Let's go back to bed."

She doesn't realize how hard avoiding things that make her feel nauseated, or how easy it is going to be to slip, until she gets to work. She's got a 7:30 makeup call for a 8:00 pre-tape, and as she's sitting in the chair, sipping a mug of ginger tea (the Internet said to do it, and it's certainly helping) and reviewing her questions, Kenzie comes in to gossip, carrying her own steaming cup of coffee. Sloan's stomach immediately flips. _Shit_. If coffee is going to be a trigger, that's going to be an issue.

"Morning," Kenzie singsongs.

"Morning," Sloan replies, trying to focus to keep the nausea at bay.

"I've missed you. You haven't been around Hang Chew's at all this week."

"We've been busy," she says. "Is that … coffee?" There is no way her body would betray her by not only taking away her favorite drink but also making the smell so repulsive. This kid is half her and half Don. Surely it loves coffee too.

"Yeah. You want some?"

"No thanks. I have my tea," she says, holding it close to inhale the ginger and get rid of the coffee fumes.

"Since when do you drink tea?" Mac snorts, scooping up the copy of the _Journal _from in front of her and curling up in the extra makeup chair.

"It's healthful. I'm trying to be more healthful," Sloan lies, sniffing it again for calm. Bethany, the makeup lady, flits around her. They're almost done.

Don enters then, and she cocks her head. "You were supposed to get more sleep," she chides.

"You were supposed to eat breakfast," he scolds back. "Hey, Mac." They exchange an uneasy look — Mac will catch on, she's now positive — and he holds up a little bag. She _really_ does not feel like eating — she needs to do some serious research and start figuring out what she can hold down — but she knows he is right. She opens the bag and finds a single sleeve of Saltines, a plain vanilla yogurt, and pre-cut melon. All of those actually sound nice.

"Thanks," she says, opening the yogurt and grabbing a spoon. She leans up to kiss him in thanks when she smells — shit. "Did you have coffee this morning?" She scrunches up her face into a sour frowny-face and shakes her head, trying to get her point across without saying words.

He's sheepish, and misreads her as jealous — she's had headaches since Tuesday because of the no-caffeine thing. "Yeah, I got some on the way in, sorr —" she just shakes her head miserably and taps under her nose. "Oh god, the smell?" he murmurs into her hair, and she nods.

"Alright, not going to lie, the next seven months just got longer," he whispers, then steps back.

"Thank you for the yogurt?" she tries.

"Goodness, Sloan, you can't let your healthful kick go too far. First you're drinking ginger tea, now you're scolding poor Don here for choosing to drink coffee, now you're eating _plain_ yogurt and melon — you have to stop sometime," Mac rambles on obliviously, flipping pages of the _Journal_. Bethany, though, puts everything together (she has three kids of her own) and her eyes widen. Catching them in the mirror, Sloan shakes her head frantically, to say, _no no, don't say anything_, while Don nods in confirmation then puts his finger over his lips. As they're leaving, Bethany quietly congratulates her and reminds her she's going to need to tell wardrobe. Of course.

Don order two sofas from IKEA, one for each of their offices, and they're supposed to be delivered on Friday. Unfortunately, Don didn't actually check the dimensions of their offices first; while the sofas will fit easily, it will require reorganization, which they don't discover until they've tied up the freight elevator and each have a crew of two guys holding the furniture awkwardly outside their doors.

"Keefer! What the hell is this?" Charlie yells as he enters her office, where she is frantically pushing things out of the way to make room for the damned thing.

"_Keefer_ is down a floor, doing the exact same thing to _his_ office," she retorts, because she has not and will not change her last name. "If you have a question for _Keefer,_ you should go there."

"You both were hit with a Martha Stewart bug on the same day?" Charlie asks.

"Don ordered both of them, so no. One of us was hit with the Martha Stewart bug and one of us just … is the beneficiary."

"And he decided to buy you a sofa too?"

"Yes! He's my husband. He decided he wanted a sofa, then thought, 'Hey. Wouldn't it be cool if I had _two_ couches on which to chill out? Hey, I have a wife whose office I can put one in.'"

"This is a newsroom! This is not your living room!"

She's still pretty queasy — she ended up throwing up twice yesterday and has already thrown up once today — and pretty short-tempered. "Well, no, Charlie, but we _do_ spend more time here than in our own living room, so if we want goddamn sofas to crash on when we miss our own I don't think that's too much of an issue!"

He draws back because he can tell she's serious, but still wags a finger at her. "No hanky-panky on these."

She laughs, because right now, as her stomach continues to dance due to _Don_'s child, that is the furthest thing from her mind. "Glass doors, Charlie, ew," she says, then adds, "We'll just keep using your office if we want to get busy at work."

"You know, in the last three years, you've certainly gained some spunk, young lady," he replies.

"And what? You hate spunk?" she quotes.

"No," he says simply. "I actually enjoy it quite a bit." He departs easily.

Once the couch is in place, she collapses on it, closing her eyes for just a second. Pregnant or no, the idea of a sofa in-office is heavenly.

She's rudely awoken by Don gently shaking her. "Shit," she says, jumping up with a start before realizing that is not a good idea. She settles back down onto her side until the spell passes. "Can you hand me the crackers? They're on my desk. And that ginger ale, please. What time is it?" Don moves to grab both.

"It's five till one," Will says, from a spot she can't see. _Shit_.

"I need to be on the air soon. I need to go talk to Julia about the script." _Once I am able to move_.

"Eat a cracker first. Did you eat lunch?"

"No, I fell asleep around 12:15. Why didn't anyone wake me up?"

"We didn't know; you should be fine for two," Don says. "You do need to get to makeup now."

"Yeah. Just give me a sec. Could you actually go grab me a sandwich? No, you've got a story meeting at 1:30." She presses her palms to her head. That seems to help.

"I'll get you a damn sandwich first," he says. "They can wait for a second."

"Are you sick?" Will asks.

"Yes," she answers at the same time Don says no. She shoots him a look, then stands up, taking another swig of the ginger ale. "I'm not _sick_, I just feel sick. I probably had some bad shrimp. Or lobster, that can go bad too. It's not contagious, so you don't need to buy a SARS mask."

Will stares at her, then at Don. "You're pregnant," he says simply.

"No," she says at the same time Don says yes. "Hey," she says, since they weren't telling people.

He shrugs. "Yeah, that wasn't going to last long with him. And we said we wouldn't _tell_ people, not that we'd lie when they guessed."

"If you want other people to not guess, you'd better become better liars," Will says. "Congrats."

"Thanks," she smiles. "But seriously, this is locked down. This is in a vault. We haven't told our parents, and we haven't been to a doctor's, and it's probably about seven weeks along, so this is getting buried like Jimmy Hoffa."

Will nods and smiles. "This is going to be fun."

"Hopefully we won't screw it up too much," she says, crunching through another cracker. "All right. I need to get going."

"I'll grab you the sandwich," Don promises.

That evening, as she's leaving to go home at exactly 9:02, Kenzie stops her in the newsroom. "Are we still on for the MOMA opening tomorrow night?"

_Shit_. "Kenz, I'm really sorry, I completely forgot, and Don and I booked this weekend in Newport. Can you go with Will instead?"

"Newport? Why are you going to Newport?"

"I hate Montauk?" she tries. That is true.

"Is everything OK with you and Don?" Kenzie asks, in a low voice, since they are in public. She starts heading toward her office, and Sloan has no choice but to follow.

"Of course. We're great. Why would you think that?"

"Because you've been distant, and the two of you have barely spoken all week, and you're leaving early, and you look _exhausted_. You've been short with people as well, and you look stressed. When he brought you breakfast the other morning you could barely stand to be near him. I know marriage is probably a little overwhelming —"

"Kenzie," she stops her friend before she really gets on a roll, and opens the door to Kenzie's office, ushering her in. "No. Absolutely not. I'm more tired than usual, yes, so I'm leaving earlier and probably a little baggy-eyed. But I swear, this has nothing to do with Don. At all. He's great. We're great. That's why we're going to Newport — we just wanted to spend some time together. That's it."

"Because it's _OK _to have rough patches."

"We're not having a rough patch."

"I'm just saying it's _OK_, I know you guys got married quickly, which I think is great, and I think you're _great_, but I know you didn't really have any rough patches that I just think you should know that it's not a make-or-break mo-"

Oh dear god. "Kenzie, I'm _pregnant_," she hisses, looking around furtively even though they are in Kenzie's office. "I took some tests earlier this week and then as soon as I did, I started being tired and nauseated. The other day? The smell of coffee makes me feel like I'm going to projectile vomit in front of a million people, that's why I didn't look happy with Don. I'm pregnant. That's why I've been sick, and tired, and crabby, and why Don decided to tie up the elevator for two hours yesterday as he had sofas delivered."

"Oh my god," Kenzie cries, and then gives her a big hug. "You're pregnant!"

"Yes," she whispers. Just in case. "Probably seven weeks, if the way the internet says to calculate is correct. I didn't want to tell anyone for another month. I still don't want to make any sort of public announcement for another three months. I actually don't want to make a public announcement at all, but that is clearly impossible," Kenzie looks like she's about to start crying with excitement. "So please, keep it under wraps. We haven't even been to the doctor yet. We haven't told our _parents_. We haven't told Charlie. Will … figured it out this afternoon. And actually, Bethany figured it out yesterday too. But please. Keep it to yourself."

"Wow," Kenzie is stunned. "I didn't know … I mean, that's stupid of me, since you're married and bought a place so why wouldn't you want to have kids..."

"But it's sudden? Yeah, totally not planned. I'm thinking I screwed up some time zones while we were in Thailand," she says, edging it with a little self-deprecating laugh. "It's like one of those lightbulb jokes — how many doctorates does it take till you can figure out your birth control? More than two, we know now."

Kenzie turns her head at the tone. "Are you … How do you feel about it?" she tries for a more diplomatic approach.

Sloan sits, and realizes that this is the first time she can honestly think about and talk about how she feels. Because with Don, it's all the heady, crazy-fast anticipation of the coming roller coaster, and they have so many details to work out. And she's the detailed one, she's the one that does details, so she needs to focus on those. There's no time to process how she's _feeling_. She knows he's so _happy_ about this. Yes, he was taken aback at first, but he's happy about this. She knows he'll be a great dad. She's excited for him to be the dad, to see him be a dad.

"I think I'll feel much better once we go to the doctor's on Monday and she tells me it's OK that I kept taking the Pill and drinking and downing excessive amounts of coffee and didn't increase my folate intake for the past month," she admits. "And then … Yeah. Is the whole concept of being a mother a little terrifying? Yes. Is it much earlier than we anticipated having a kid? Yes. Do I … wish we had more time before this happened? Yes. Is there a lot to work out, with our jobs and our schedules and schools and nannies and other things we wanted to do? Yes," at her friend's alarmed face, she quickly wraps up her rant: "But it's fine. I mean, it's great! I mean that," she reassures. "I married him. If having a child with him was going to be a problem I wouldn't have done that."

"I know! And you two are great," Kenzie searches her face. "But it has been quick. And neither are you are really the impulsive type, but you were impulsive about the wedding..."

"No we weren't," Sloan corrects. "That's the thing. We decided that wanted to be _married_, not engaged, and so put together a wedding quickly. That wasn't an impulsive choice. This isn't like we just dated for two years off and on and accidentally got pregnant; we're _married_. For better, for worse, we're married. We talked out kids, death, careers, finances, religion, when we were making that decision. Marriage was intentional. This kid … another story. But Don once told me that marriage wasn't a market prediction, and I argued with him. I said when choosing a spouse you were making a bet on the future. But he's right. It's choosing someone to help you pick the other stocks, and helping you deal with whatever the market throws at you. Like a baby. So yes, it's a curveball. I've never changed a diaper before, which freaks me out. I am worried about a lot of things. But am I worried about how this will work long term? Hell no." She notices tears in Kenzie's eyes. "What?"

"It's just … you two are always so _low-key_, and _sarcastic_, and you get along so naturally that sometimes it's easy to forget how good … and strong … you two are," Kenzie says. "That was just romantic, Sloan. It's … It's clear why you two figured it out so quickly."

"Thanks," she smiles, and grabs her bag. "So yeah, we booked a weekend out of town together because of this. It's just, I realized this is the last weekend before we become _parents_ and it's no longer just the two of us. So I'm really sorry about MOMA, it honestly, absolutely slipped my mind."

"It's fine," MacKenzie says. "You two have a good time, alright?"

"Absolutely," Sloan says. "And remember — please. Don't tell anyone."

"Of course not," Kenzie smiles. "God, you two are going to be good at this."

**It's the second time someone has made the pronouncement, and it makes Sloan a little uneasy. Because she's not entirely sure how objectively good she'll be at this. But she and Don are in it together, and the baby is en route, and so they're going to find out. "God, I hope so," she whispers against her friend's back. **


	3. Everything I have to give, I give to you

Thanks to all who have been reading, and especially to those who have left reviews! This one is the fluffiest to date (toothachingly so), and also the first I wrote. I've started posting the longer piece that these feed into, thicker than forget, so if you like this you should check that out. It's got considerably less fluff but is still pretty decent, I think. Again, this timeline assumes Don and Sloan started dating in about November or December of 2012, which obviously didn't happen in canon. The other piece 'thicker than forget' (which you should read) assumes that s.2 happen, and takes place about 6-8 years in the future. I consider both to be truth. Ah, the wonders of fanfiction!

Anyways, if you like this, please let me know! I really appreciate it.

* * *

_May  
_

The topic of moving in together is first broached in May, by Kenzie. She's had about three too many Cosmos and is watching them argue where to go home to after a night at Hang Chew's — Sloan wants to go to her place because all her clean clothes are there; Don wants to go to his place since it's 12:30 in the morning and his apartment is closer. Kenzie's chin is tucked into the heel of her hand, and her eyes spark back and forth between them as the argument gets increasingly irritable. They are strung out from neverending election coverage, and _so close _to Memorial Day (she's going down to Don's mom and stepdad's in Berwyn, and it's her first time visiting them and she can't pretend it's a little nerve-wracking), and _so close_ to a full-blown argument because they are overtired. So when Kenzie, who's the most overtired of them all, goes, "Oh, just move in together!" Sloan freezes.

"Drink your Cosmo, Kenzie," she finally says, as Don splutters. Because he knows — and she knows he knows — her tacit condition for moving in together: A marriage proposal.

It's old-fashioned, she understands, to wait to merge households. But she is kind of old-fashioned, anyways, and she's definitely independent. Plus, it's more difficult, financially and emotionally, to go through a breakup when you're living together. Both she and Don had lived through it already. And while Maggie had just moved all her crap out of Don's place and left in a day (with her strange stopover in Sloan's office), Sloan had had to live in a hotel for three weeks after the breakup with Topher — which meant she had to go _back_, after it was all over to pick up furniture and supervise wedding-gift return and parse his books from hers.

"Goodness, Sloan, it's more _economical_," Kenzie drawls, downing the Cosmo.

"It's not, actually," she replies. "We both own our apartments. It's not waiting out one lease and picking the place we mutually hate the least."

"You're a party pooper," Kenzie mutters, beckoning for the waiter. "You logicalize _everything_. You know, you could get a dog if you moved in together. You can't get a puppy when you're splitting time between two spaces. Somebody around here needs to get a puppy, and you two are my best options." She orders another drink as Sloan signals for the check. "And now you're leaving!"

"Yes, because Don's right, his place is closer, and I'm tired, but I'm going to have to go to my place tomorrow morning to pick up clothes."

"For crying out loud," Don says, just throwing down a fifty to cover their drinks and grabbing his coat. "It's late. The streets will be empty. Let's just take a cab to yours." He's not mad, just tired.

She's too tired to argue too (and she _does_ live really damn far away, but she honestly has nothing left at his place) so she just says, "Thankyou," as she shrugs her jacket on. They leave to Mac yelling, "You'll have to talk about it someday!"

He hails a cab and she gets in, quickly telling the cabbie William Street. As Don opens his mouth to speak, she shakes her head and says, "_Don't_."

"I was going to say, this is probably better anyways, since that ficus you've been battling is probably dead, but yes. Please. Assume the worst."

She feels chastened, so she just reaches over and squeezes his hand. "I'm sorry. It's late, and I'm tired, and I don't want to talk about what MacKenzie just said when I'm tired and probably going to say something stupid."

"I don't think whatever you're going to say is as stupid as you think it is," he says mildly.

She tosses him a wary look, and then says, "Good. Whatever," and shifts unexpectedly to curl into his side.

"Aren't you the one who always gripes about the seatbelts?" he mutters against her temple.

"Seatbelts save 10,000 lives a year," she confirms, but doesn't move.

When they get to her place, they go through their evening routine on autopilot: She boils hot water so she can have tea and he can have cocoa (she's been sworn to secrecy about that), and he waters the plants and empties the load of towels she started last week. Once the chores are done they pad into the bedroom and he flips to the _Daily Show_. "We're going to have to do my place tomorrow since now I'm the one out of clothes," he says as he tosses his jeans and shirt into the hamper.

"You have something, though, right?" She pulls a plum razorback tank and white lace shorts on, straightening the hem with two fingers.

"Yeah, your favorite flannel shirt," he snorts.

"I hate that shirt," she says, unnecessarily, because she knows exactly which one he is referencing.

He rolls his eyes and pads into bed. "You want to tell me why Mac's comment freaked you out so much?"

She puts down the _Journal of Political Economy_ she's brought for light bedtime reading, and considers huffing, "Not really." She is more mature than that, though. At least when she's speaking out loud. Stretching out on her side and tucking her head onto her elbow, she says, carefully, "Remember what I said when you asked me how to ask Maggie to move in with you?"

"You suggested that I ask, 'Will you marry me,'" he aligns his body to hers. "And then reminded me that if we broke up we'd need to get cartons. Which was true, by the way, so thanks for the head's up."

She smirks at his poor attempt at humor. "So the thing is, I believe that. I think if you're going to commit to someone, you need to think it through."

"I got that," he says, tugging a finger through her hair.

"Ok," she says, struggling to figure out where that leaves her. "So Kenzie's comment threw me a little."

"Ok. Why?" he's got his patient journalist-guy voice on, and his hand trails from her hair over her arm and around her hip.

She gives him a 'duh' look. "Because it — the other _it_ — is not something we've discussed. And I don't know where you stand on either, and I was … worried," she huffs out, because feelings kind of suck sometimes, "that we aren't on the same page. I'm not sure what page I'm on, honestly. I'm not on any page. And I don't want that … condition … on moving in ... to put pressure on you. Because I like where we are. And you tend to flip out under pressure. As do I. And if we're making decisions about … us … in the future, I want to do so clear-headedly." _Sloan Sabbith, that is not a word_, she scolds herself.

"Ok," he says casually, moving in for a kiss.

"Do you have anything besides 'Ok' to say?" She pulls back.

"I think we _are_ on the same page," he elaborates. "Moving in with Maggie was clearly a colossal mistake, so if you don't want to or don't feel ready, I don't want to push you. Us, I mean. And I knew your feelings on it from the get-go, so this isn't a new thing. I don't need to do the technical move in to feel validated in this relationship."

"It's not that I don't think I'd like to live with you," she says, too quickly. "Or that I don't recognize that yes, it's a little inconvenient to basically be splitting time between two apartments fifty blocks apart."

"So move in with me," he says.

She stares at him. "Did you not understand what I just said?"

"I did," he says.

She's still confused. "I said I didn't want to move in with anyone until I was at least engaged to him."

"And I'm still asking."

"I don't know what you're asking!" He gives her a look that says, _you are clearly smarter than this, Sloan Sabbith_, and she exclaims, "You were dating Maggie for 18 months and when I suggested that you propose, you _moaned _because the idea was too overwhelming!"

"_You_ lived with Topher for a year before he proposed," he counters. "Those were different relationships."

She stares at him like he is deluded, because he potentially is, but waits for him to elaborate. "Look, I'm not saying, 'let's get married tomorrow,' or that I have a ring or anything — I don't — but I'm saying — not to me specifically, but why would you get married? Generally."

"Beyond the tax benefits?" she says, and he pinches her hip lightly. In retaliation, she tickles his third rib, which always triggers some reflex, and the teasing does just enough to defuse the situation. Finally she gasps, gathers her breath, and runs a hand down his cheek, contemplating his question. "I guess … I only want to get married once," she says. "So I would want to be … comfortable making that assessment."

"It's not a market prediction," he counters.

"It kind of is," she points out. "In fact, that's exactly what it is."

He rolls his eyes, but scoots closer. "I think you're wrong but alright. Do you predict that we could break up? Or that we might not be compatible in the long run? Be honest." And he means that, she knows. He's confident but not arrogant, which is her favorite Don.

"No," she breathes, after a second, because that's as long as it takes. "I don't."

"Ok," he says. "So beyond the one-and-done thing, what else do you consider when you get married?"

"Well, I would be doing it for the marriage, and not the wedding," she says. "Not that … Not that Topher was for the wedding, necessarily, but we'd been together for so long, and we'd been living together, so it was kind of … what happened next. There were no reasons why we _shouldn't_, but not a whole lot of reasons why we should. So I would want to make sure I was getting married because I wanted to be with that person. That I wanted them to be the first person I saw in the morning and the last person I saw at night. That I could talk to them, and not be afraid of what they were going to say. That person who would be my counsel, and know my secrets, and not be afraid to be honest with me, and that I could trust. That … I could see raising children with, if we decided to have them."

"You want kids?" he asked, propping his elbow so he was raised a little higher. It was not something that had come up before.

"I mean, not _four_, and no stupid names," she says quickly, thinking of her own family. "But one or maybe two, with the right person? Yeah." She's never felt that kids were necessary, but she could see them with Don in a way she's never pictured them with anyone else, even Topher. Then, kids were so hypothetical that she had assumed she would have five or six years of marriage to ease into the idea, or make a decision, and honestly could have gone either way. With Don, she could see a kid. She'd like to see him as a dad. He would probably be good at it, she thinks.

She searches his face, because it's not something they've discussed, and she doesn't know if he think he would be a good dad. But he says, "Two sounds like a good number," before a grin cracks across his face.

She kisses him briefly and then asks, "Why you? Why now?" The unspoken - his general unwillingness to commit in the past - lingers between them.

"Because I ... want to be old with you. Sit on some porch in Florida, listen to you rant about what Congress is doing to fuck up the economy, spoil grandkids, old," he says. "I don't have to - I don't have to be anything else with you, and I like that feeling, and I want to argue and flirt and just be with you. And it's different and it's special and I know that. And it's not changing, and I haven't had that before. So if it's now or in four years or ten years, I would like to at some point let our friends and families recognize that. I don't care when, I just want to. You know. At some point."

She leans in to kiss him then, and he quickly rolls over her. She smiles into his kiss, because it feels like they've decided on something. "What kind of wedding would you want?" he asks, kissing languidly down her collarbone. It's one of those makeout sessions that's intimate without necessarily going anywhere, and she arches gently into him.

"Honestly? Nothing huge. We decide to get married on a Tuesday, call all our family and friends on Wednesday and tell them to book flights or drive up, apply for a license Thursday, invite Mac and Will and Elliot and Julia and Charlie on a Friday, and get married at City Hall on a Saturday."

He pulls back to give her the widest grin imaginable, and she realizes she just planned her wedding, and this one is real and going to happen, sooner rather than later, probably. "That sounds perfect," he says, then adds, "Seriously. Whenever you want to. Move in with me."

**And that becomes their thing, suddenly. He asks her at least once a day - at breakfast; when she hands him his cocoa at night; bellowed at her retreating back after a quick exchange in the halls; in her ear through the headset when she's filling in for Elliot. Standing in front of a tiny church during a long weekend on the Cape; on their first real vacation to Jamaica; dancing as balloons fall at the Republican convention. If he doesn't remember to say it once during the day, he murmurs it into her ear as she falls asleep. A box shows up, in his sock drawer, one Thursday toward the end of July. She cracks open the box every so often to stare at it. It's gorgeous, a clear, emerald-cut diamond, three carats encircled by a dozen pave diamonds, from Cartier. It's in a split-shank gold setting, which she instantly infinitely prefers to silver or platinum. It is perfect. **

And then on the second Tuesday in September, as they're all exhausted from Benghazi and the campaign, he's standing by the TelePrompTer during her 4 o'clock show, giving her an update from MacKenzie about that night's broadcast — Kenzie's sent him as a messenger because it means Sloan is right and she knows Sloan will gloat — and she says, "Cool. Tell Kenzie that I'm glad she finally saw the error of her ways."

"Got it," he says, deadpan. "Move in with me?"

And she goes for it. "Sure. This weekend?" They're busier than they've ever been, and she's running on three hours of sleep, so it seems fitting, somehow.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He's stunned. His papers fall all over. "Oh — ok," he says, and hops up onto the desk to give her a quick, hard kiss, in the 20 seconds she's got. He rushes off camera, and then continues to watch the rest of her show, which he never does. As soon as the show is over, he grabs her away by the elbow, and they walk straight to his office, almost giggling. He pushes her against the wall, quickly, and kisses her. "You mean it? You absolutely mean it?"

"Yes," she breathes. "And I'm serious about this weekend. Let's just do it."

"Ok. Wow," he runs his hands through his hair. "Ok. Plans. What were the next steps you had? Let's make this happen."

And they come up with a list and start making a few phone calls. She calls a friend of a friend at Mark Ingram Atelier, and gets an appointment for Thursday morning. She selects an above-knee lace Amsale dress with an illusion neckline and low-cut portrait back. It skims close to her body and she would have picked it if they had a year to plan. He calls a contact at City Hall to get the license, and use Will's name to book a private meal at the Oceana. One of his friends from college is a photographer and so they call him. They book a suite at the Plaza for Saturday and Sunday nights for them. Wednesday they call his mom and Skype her parents and text her grad-school roommate and G-chat his brother and somehow cajole 25 people into getting themselves to New York's City Hall by 4:30 on Saturday. They sneak out Friday morning to fill out the marriage certificate.

They still haven't told anyone at work — they don't want word getting out. She spends all day Wednesday and Thursday frantically booking hotel rooms and tracking down errant guests and making phone calls between shows and is positive they will get made, because she cracks easily under interrogation and Don has a stupid grin on the entire time. On Friday, at 3, she walks into Kenzie's office, and shuts the door. "I have a thing, that I need to tell you," she blurts out.

"Goodness," Kenzie Britishes. "Spit it out, then."

"I was wondering what you have going on tomorrow."

"Well I was hoping for a quiet day. I have a Pilates class at five that I haven't made in about six weeks I might go to. Why. What's up?"

"I'm going to ask you to cancel that, if that's alright."

"Why, Sloan?"

She purses her lips. "You can't tell anyone, what I'm going to tell you, until Sunday. It's embargoed. Embargoed, Kenzie. Em-bar-goed."

"Fine, embargoed, why? Are you and Don getting married?"

Well, damn. That made it easy. "Yeah, actually."

"What?" Mac's jaw goes slack.

"I said yes, actually. Tomorrow. 4:30. City Hall. We have a room reserved at the Oceana at 7 for a reception."

"Oh, my god."

"Yeah. And remember - you can't tell anyone."

"Shit. Sloan!" Kenzie gets up, and crushes her in a hug. "I called this, you know. I told Will almost two years ago that you two should end up together. And he said true love always wins! And he was right. When did he ask? How did he ask?"

"Tuesday."

"What?"

"He asked Tuesday." At her friend's dumbfounded look, she elaborates, "About four months ago, you told us to just move in together -"

"I don't remember that."

"I'm not surprised. You were pretty … schwasted, I think, is the term. Anyways, he knew that I didn't want to move in with anyone until I was engaged, and then we started talking about what we would want to do and we kind of …. agreed that this would happen."

"Four months ago?"

"Yes."

"He asked you to marry him four months ago and you didn't say anything in the last, oh, four months!"

"He didn't ask, and I didn't say yes! We just agreed. And every day since - he asks me to move in with him. Because … I don't know, that's like our thing? Since I won't move in with him unless we're engaged, so he asks me to move in instead? It's like the transitive property of marriage proposals. Wait. That sounds dumb when I say it out loud. Actually, most of these parts sound stupid when I say them out loud."

"No. It's amazing. Go on." Kenzie looks absolutely enthralled.

"Fine. So he asks me to move in with him once a day; I say not yet. And then a few weeks ago an engagement ring showed up on his dresser."

"He just put it on his dresser."

"Well. In his sock drawer. But I practically live with him! And he didn't say anything."

"So he just … had this engagement ring? And you didn't say anything? And you didn't tell me?"

"Yes. No. It was his ring. And he asked me to move in with him every day. And so on Tuesday, I was doing the 4 o'clock, and you sent him to tell me something, and then he asked me to move in with him. And I said okay."

"That is the most backwards, most romantic, non-proposal proposal."

"I mean, the end result is the same, right? Marriage?"

"So now you're getting married on Saturday. And where the hell is this ring? I want to see the ring."

"I can't wear a ring when nobody knows we're getting married. And yes. That was part of our plan - do it quickly. We don't really care about the wedding."

"That's so romantic," Mac breaths.

"I would say more 'practical,' but sure," she agrees. "Anyways - one, don't tell anyone. I invited Julia today, and I think he's talked to Elliot already, and we're going to go to Charlie and Will together this evening. But that's it from the office. So don't. Tell. Anyone." She gives her friend her Deadly Serious face.

"Got it," Mac says, smiling because she loves a good secret. "Are you going to tell everyone?"

"Well," she says, because they've talked about it. "We're looking at a two-week honeymoon in the spring. So we figure everyone will catch on by then."

"Oh my god, you're getting married!" Mac exclaims, hugging her, tears in her eyes.

"Another thing," she says, biting her lip and scrutinizing her friend. "Will you be one of our witnesses and sign the certificate? I got to pick one and I'd like you. Don's asking Elliot."

"Oh my god, oh my god," Mac says, and honest to god starts crying outright. "This is so … I'm so. .. Yes. Absolutely. Of course." She hugs her tight. "So where are you guys moving?"

"What?"

"You said it was all about moving in with him. So are you moving into his place or to into your place?"

"Oh," Sloan said. "Fuck. We didn't think through that part." She wrinkles her nose. "Honestly, we should probably just buy a bigger place. And new furniture."

"You two are so dense," Kenzie says, but she's smiling.

**Planning a wedding in four days isn't advisable. Plenty goes wrong — she forgets to buy flowers, so they stop the taxi in front of a flower shop and she runs in to pick out a batch of calla lillies. And they forgot to think of music, so Will brings his guitar to play Paul McCartney. But she does get to wear a perfect white dress and a pair of killer Stuart Weitzman gold stilettos in front of the 30 people who matter to her, and marry the person that matters most to her. And that's the only thing that really counts. **


	4. Someone You Can Call

Hey all! I'm sick on a Saturday night, so figured I might as well update this :) This one-shot is one of my favorites, and it comes before the last one, get to meet Don's brother and some of the rest of his family, and I think they're pretty awesome (I kind of picture Jake Johnson playing the affable, slightly oblivious younger brother, but that's weird because Olivia Munn played his love interest once too.) But whatever.

Thanks so much for everyone who is reading and reviewing this one, as well as "thicker than forget" my longer piece.

* * *

_April _

"Eight tickets. Yes. For tomorrow," Don says, as the woman on the other end of the line starts laughing. "All together, if possible, but given your reaction I'll honestly just take things that are in the same theatre."

"Sir, _Newsies _is _the_ hot ticket on Broadway right now," the woman says, and he imagines her wiping back tears. "_The_ hot ticket. It could win the Tony! And you want eight tickets, all together, for tomorrow."

He taps the phone's receiver against his head and wonders if he's delusional. "Are the tickets available or not?"

"They're $210 a person," she says.

"That's $1,700! For a play about kids who sell _newspapers_ for a _penny_. Are you freaking kidding me?"

"Plus fees. Do you want the tickets or not?"

He is going to kill Mitch, one day, possibly tomorrow. He takes a deep breath, and is about to confirm, when Sloan wanders in. She cocks her head and motions at the phone. "One sec," he tells the lady. "Mitch is coming to town tomorrow."

"Mitch?"

"Yeah, he called around noon. It's spring break and it's Madison's birthday and she wants to see _Newsies_. But of course he hadn't gotten tickets yet, because why would he, since I live in New York, so I should handle it since it's around the corner?" he says sarcastically. Sloan looks as confused at the logic as he is, which makes him feel better. "Anyways. Tickets are $210."

"Plus fees," the agent says.

"Plus fees," he repeats, and then sighs. "I'll take them," he says. "Eight. One sec. Let me grab my card." He quickly wraps up and then says, "I just paid $1,700 for tickets to a _musical_ because my brother forgot about quaint technologies like the phone and the Internet that would've enabled him to take care of this himself."

"What time is it?" she asks.

"It's the 2 p.m. show, they're just driving up for the day," he replies, then remembers he never actually _asked_ if she wanted to come along. "Shit — I got — sorry — I didn't ask. Do you … _want_ to come with us? Are you, you know, free tomorrow? I didn't check." While he thinks she's in it with him, he's never really _quite_ sure. One day she's going to wake up and realize she can do better than him, so he should probably _not_ just expect that she's going to want to spend all day meeting his brother, his sister-in-law, his half-sister, and his elementary-school-aged niece and nephews, none of whom she's ever met in person. "Shit, you have spinning on Saturday. And you grade your papers on Saturday. You should do those."

"No, the show sounds fun. Or, I should say, watching you watch a completely realistic, not-at-all-factually-exaggerated musical about newsboys while having to not be dry or profane around young children sounds fun," she says. "Plus Mitch never finished telling me about how you broke your collarbone in Panama City in 1997, and I really want to hear that."

"It was _his_ fault," he says, for the fifteenth time, but Sloan smirks anyways.

"What time are they getting in?"

"Nine, he says."

She wrinkles her nose. "It's like, what, a two-hour drive from Philly? They want to leave at seven?"

"Yeah, but I bank on them getting in at 11 and they get in at eight," he says. "They're going to go shopping first, I think. What does an six-year-old girl like to do?"

"She's eight, you know."

"Who is?"

"Madison, your niece? She's eight. It's her _eighth_ birthday. You suck at math."

"She's in second grade!"

"You turn eight in second grade. You think you turn six in second grade?"

"I don't remember the second grade, so sure."

"You start kindergarten at five, five plus two — you know what, this is alarming and stressful. Let's not. What time do they want to meet?" He shrugs. "OK, why don't you find that out? And then find a restaurant if they want to grab lunch."

He quells the urge to kiss her. "You're the best."

She smiles, but looks a bit puzzled. "Yes, but I don't know how this qualifies. He's your brother; she's your niece. It's not that hard."

He kisses her then. "I've got to go prep," she says, smiling into the kiss before breaking away slightly. "Please don't start a massive fight with Mitch in the next thirteen hours."

"That was almost $2,000," he says, kissing her again. "That's a long weekend on a beach with you. Of course I'm ticked."

She laughs. "If I'd ever seen you leave the office for more than a dentist appointment between the hours of 10 a.m. Monday and 11 p.m. Friday, I might believe you," she squeezes his hand. "I'm going to makeup. I'll see you at Hang Chew's. Wings are $2 each since it's Friday."

"I can do vacation," he protests as she heads to the door. She just raises her eyebrows, says, "Sure, honey," in a syrupy, mocking tone, and heads out. If the tone hadn't given her away, the use of a pet name would. "I can _totally _do vacation," he repeats to the empty room.

He heads to a conference call with the six ACN embeds covering the Republican candidates (unsurprisingly, their relationship with the Romney bus is still a little rocky), before popping into the graphics department to check out two charts for Elliot, then grabbing his script and popping into the control room to watch Sloan explain why the Dow has dropped so badly and what exactly it means. After Mac gets done whispering sweet nothings into Will's ear, he asks, "Hey Mac?"

"What's up Keefer?"

"If you were, hypothetically, going to go away for a long weekend, to a location that is both romantic but also has no issues with Internet or television access and isn't that far from New York City, where would you go?"

Mac scrunches her nose, covers her mic to Sloan and Will. "Wow, you really know how to _woo_ a girl, Don."

"I said romantic!" he protests. "Also, spectacular. Those are the two main things, really."

"How about … syrup-gathering in Vermont?"

"Please don't make me beg," he begs.

Mac smirks. "Let me think about it. I'll email you later," she promises.

He ends up staying way late with Mac, Charlie, and Will planning out the rest of primary coverage, so late that Sloan texts him, "Lost wing-eating contest to Neal. Dying. Bed," so he skips Hang Chew's.

He enters the apartment quietly, and peeks into the bedroom, where he sees Sloan curled in bed, the TV glowing on her. "How many did you eat?" he asks, leaning over her to kiss her temple as she makes a noise not dissimilar to the noise a cat makes when being woken up.

"Twelve, in three minutes," she groans.

"An even dozen's pretty good."

"Neal got sixteen. I figured, Europeans don't have the overeating issues Americans do. Surely that will work in my favor," she shakes her head. "Bad move, Sabbith. Bad move."

He chuckles a little as she burrows deeper into the pillow. "Can I get you anything?"

"McGonagall's time turner so I can go back and redo the last two hours of my life," she stretches out along the pillow, wincing, he hopes, because she finds the situation funny. "Did you call your brother?"

"I, ah, you know, I really _meant_ to, and then I … did not."

She throws her hands up against the pillow. "Why am I not surprised?"

"What?"

"You don't like talking about uncomfortable things with your brother, like the fact that he owes you two grand for a pretty 'meh' musical based on an admittedly underrated movie."

"It's not that I don't like talking about uncomfortable things with my brother, it's the fact that I don't like talking about _anything_ personal with _anyone_ in my family," he clarifies, yanking off his shirt. It's a lesson he learned from his father, and he aced that class. He and Mitch were close enough growing up, though Don had never been able to figure out how Mitch was so damn _nice_ and _likable_ and _happy_ all the damn time. Mitch had never wanted things, hungered after things, worried about things, the same way Don had. In high school, Mitch had been a solid but not spectacular athlete who earned straight B's. Don had run the student council, captained the tennis team, come in second in the class, and generally been an all-around pain in the principal's ass with his crusades for off-campus lunch and school dances that last until midnight. Mitch married Melanie when they were twenty-four, and they settled into an incredibly happy, perfectly content existence with their three kids and a picket fence. Mitch created new suburban developments, Mel was a teacher, and all three of their kids were blonde. They confused Don, on a lot of levels.

"That's so much better," Sloan smirks. "I got a noon reservation at Sarabeth's Central Park South. They have like five kinds of French toast, everyone will be happy."

"I love you," he says, mostly joking, but also completely serious. He slides into bed. "So I was thinking …"

"Yes, Christian Bale was great in the film," she murmurs, teasing.

"I will never get that," he laughs, running a hand down her hip. "When we get that two grand back from Mitch, I was thinking we go on a vacation."

"A vacation?" she asks, intrigued. "For two grand? You're gonna have to sell me on this one, pal."

"For more than two grand. Or a long weekend, for two grand. Jeez, woman. _You're_ the money whiz. I'm just supposed to be the gold digger in this relationship, you know," he laughs. "No, I'm serious. Let's just … go."

"Where?" she asks.

"Jamaica? Bermuda? Mexico? Long Beach Island, even? I don't really care. I'm amenable."

"Amenable to swimsuits and fruity umbrella drinks, more like," she says.

"Yes, that is the definition of amenable," he laughs. "I'm serious. Let's go somewhere. I would surprise you, but I feel like you might react poorly to me throwing your Blackberry out a window and tossing you into a car."

"You do have to give me enough time to pick out what economics journals I want to bring," she laughs, pushing him under her, shifting her knees to either side of his thighs and running her hands down his belly. "And I want a week. A full week. No phones."

"Deal," he grins.

The next morning, they're in the shower when Mitch calls, arriving (unsurprisingly) early. Don convinces them to go to American Girl Place while he and Sloan get ready. He's unsure how he got roped into this adventure, and can't believe Sloan agreed to tag along, but he'll absolutely take it. He's basically prepared to follow her to the end of the earth without question, but he's not going to say that out loud, because that's creepy and he knows that.

They're finally ready — she looks great in red jeans and a blue-and-white nautical-y sweater — to meet his brother for brunch. "You're not nervous?" he checks, as they enter the packed Sarabeth's.

"No. It's an omelette. Are you nervous?"

"No. I'm not nervous. Me? No. Never."

"Ok," she shakes her shoulders, swings her arms in front her, arches her neck to either side to stretch. "Because for the record, I might be a little nervous."

"Called it," he sing-songs as they bump into his brother, his sister-in-law, his niece, his nephews, and his half-sister. "Wow, okay," he says, trying to stay level-headed as he and Sloan stare at the pack of them. "Sloan, you've talked to Mitch, my brother; this is Melanie, his wife; here's Matt, he's in kindergarten, and Mason, he's in third grade; Madison, the birthday girl — happy birthday, Maddie — and Lily Moreno, my half-sister," he smiles. "Guys, this is my girlfriend, Sloan."

"Are you our new aunt?" Matt asks. Sloan's eyes widen and then freeze in her perfect-anchor Mona Lisa smile. She terrified. And truthfully, Don would like to die just a little.

Melanie quickly reaches out to fluff his hair in a maternal but threatening manner. "Excuse him. Pretty sure Lily offered him five dollars to say that. Apologize, Matty, that was nosy."

"I'm sorry," he says. "Wait, why is that nosy?"

"I did make him say that," Lily admits.

"You're grounded," Don deadpans.

"So what do we call her?" Matt asks his mom.

"You can call me Sloan," she smiles, then bends down and gives him her hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you." He has to hand it to her for not running away right there.

"Lily says you're on TV," Mason says.

"I am," she says, nodding. "But only for the boring stuff – the news."

"Do you know Selena Gomez?" Madison asks. "I love her."

"Nope. I saw her in our studio once, though. She had nice shoes," Sloan tries.

"We should probably find our table," Don says, placing a hand on Sloan's back to signal her to straighten. "Whose name did you put the reservation under?"

"Mine, one sec. Excuse me," Sloan ambles off, Madison trailing with more questions about Selena Gomez.

"You know, until today, I didn't quite believe you," Mitch snarks. "Why's she dating you?"

He shrugs. "Honestly I try not to question that too much," he says.

"He's so smitten," Mel says to Mitch, touching his elbow. "I told you."

"What's smitten mean?" Mason asks.

"It means Don looks like he wants to kiss Sloan a lot," Lily explains.

"Oh. Gross, Uncle Don."

"She's pretty though, right?" he asks Mason, who does smirk and nod.

"We can eat now!" Madison yells from the hostess's stand. "Let's sit down, people!"

"So how did you two meet?" Mel asks once they're all settled. She's got one son on either side of her and is in her element.

The two of them exchange a weird look, because the answer is obvious. "Work," Sloan finally says.

"Sloan started at ACN a little over a year after I did."

"That's how you _know_ each other. How did you _meet_?"

Don struggles with the distinction. To him, they feel the same. When she started, he'd been a senior producer, focused on keeping his head above water and surfing Will's bearish and boorish whims. He hadn't noticed the new dayside anchor that everyone was talking about — she was smart and gorgeous and brand-new to journalism, but tenacious, blunt, and just a little awkward.

And then … he'd been in the middle of the newsroom, yelling at a source on the phone and bouncing a stress ball, when he missed a catch and the ball rolled away. She'd practically tripped over it, chided him to be careful, and handed the ball back to him. He hadn't been able to say anything before she strutted off, her clingy purple dress showing off her swinging hips. A few days later in a news meeting, she'd made him laugh by saying something sarcastic. He'd responded in kind, and they'd shared a smile. He'd introduced himself, and she had said, "I know." And after that, they had gravitated toward each other, become friends. And after that, she was a fixture in his life.

Sloan wrinkles her nose. "I don't know. In the newsroom, maybe? Don was probably using his rapier wit to bug Elliot or Will."

"Uh, no, Miss Scarlet, I believe it was _your_ witty repartee, in a staff meeting, with Charlie, where we officially met," he recovers. He sure as hell isn't going to tell her that she'd rendered him speechless. That would be way too much of an upper hand between them. He grabs a menu and starts looking at their French toast selection. Sloan's right — there are three types of French toast, _and_ two types of eggs Benedict. Holla.

"No, like when did you _meet _meet? Like, yeah, I met Mitch during freshman orientation at Nova, but we didn't start _dating_ until finals, when he stood outside my dorm window holding a boombox, after he told me he didn't get _Say Anything_."

Sloan shrugs slightly self-consciously, because their whole history is deeper and shallower than Mitch's wooing of Melanie, and it's not something either of them want to get into publicly. She'd said once _You get me_, and it was true, he liked to think. That was the most important thing. They'd transitioned smoothly, and honestly, and explicitly, from friends to a relationship. But he wonders if he maybe should have used a grand gesture at some point.

He shakes his head. "We've been working together for almost four years. We were pretty close friends for most of those years," he says _most_, because they had drifted when he started dating Maggie. "I'd use her office to avoid the boss and she'd use me for the coffeemaker in my office and we'd end up talking at most work things, because they're terrible," he shudders.

"Can I get two French toasts?" Madison asks. "Please? It's my birthday."

"Absolutely not," Mel says.

"What if I get one and you get one, and we switch? Birthday treat," Sloan says.

Madison grins, her teeth biting her lower lip hard. "Ok," she says. "Thank you thank you thank you."

After the play — which the four kids love and he has to admit is a pretty peppy look at journalism — Madison begs to go down to the ice skating rink.

"Pretty sure it's closed," Don says, because there's no way he's getting out onto the ice.

"No way, it's open through next weekend," Sloan says.

"Traitor," he says.

"I like ice skating," she shrugs. Since they're holding hands, he involuntarily shrugs, too.

"You grew up in Japan and California, when the hell did you learn to ice skate?"

She cocks her head. "You know where Japan is, right? Next to _Siberia_. Between the math thing yesterday and this, I'm getting very worried about the strength of the Lower Merion School District."

"I'd be down," Mel says.

"Don and I will be in charge of the hot chocolate," Mitch says.

"You don't want to skate?" Sloan asks, her face falling.

"Uh, no," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "I value my tailbone. And the ability to walk."

"Your loss, sucker," she shakes her head.

Twenty minutes later, he and Mitch are staring at eight cups of hot chocolate as the rest of the group loops around the slushy early-spring ice. Sloan's holding Madison's hands and helping her skate backwards as Lily and Mason watch and laugh. She's pretty awesome.

"So Sloan's pretty awesome," Mitch says, out of the blue, scratching his neck. "Seriously. I think Lily and Madison are about to skip Philly and move in with you two."

"We don't live together, but yeah. She's … yeah." He smiles. He knows he's hit the fucking jackpot here.

"What the fuck, man? Ask her to move in. She _likes_ you, you idiot. You _want_ to hold on to her, right?"

"Yeah. She won't go for it," he shakes his head. "But yeah. I fully intend on keeping her around."

"But you won't move in with her? Don," Mitch, with the authority of having dated exactly one girl, ever, starts in on him, "you need to show her you're serious."

"Sloan doesn't want to move in with anyone until she's engaged," he shrugs. "So hopefully by the end of the summer."

"Seriously?"

He cracks a grin. "Yeah."

"Don."

"Mitch."

"You're serious about this?"

"Yup."

"The end of summer?"

"I mean, I have to, you know … figure out how to get it done in a spectacular fashion. And buy a perfect ring that costs about as much as a high-end sedan. And run it by her so I'm reasonably sure she'll say yes and she doesn't rip my heart out and toss it into a meat grinder and turn it into a hamburger patty. So there are a few things to figure out first," he lifts one shoulder. "But … yeah. I'd like to. And I'd like to soon."

"Don Keefer, pulled out of perpetual bachelordom by a gorgeous TV star who could kick his ass at Scrabble," Mitch claps him on the shoulder. "I thought this day would never come. You could barely commit to a type of pizza ten years ago."

"I wasn't that bad."

"You moved every ten months so exes couldn't find you."

"That was just one ex. A _crazy_ ex."

"You once got a drink tossed in your face because you went on a blind date with the roommate of a one-night-stand."

"You live in New York long enough and you end up dating into the same circles."

"You broke a collarbone in Panama City jumping off a boardwalk to get away from another crazy one-night-stand."

"Alright, I get it," Don groans. "Help me out, alright? This is already nerve-wracking enough without you going over the ninety-three ways I've fucked up relationships in the past."

"She's not going to say no," Mitch says confidently.

"You've known her for what, four hours? And you saw her on Skype what, maybe three times?"

"Yeah but she likes you," Mitch shifts, and pulls a folded check out of his pocket. "She called me yesterday because you bought the tickets for today, and she said that you were going to be too nice and not ask me for the two grand that those tickets cost," he slides the check over. "Take this money, take that woman on a fucking vacation, and ask her to marry you." Mitch grins.

Later that night, after they've sent the Keefer family home (Madison hugged Sloan six times and then cried when her mother told her she couldn't stay in New York), she's lying with her head in his lap as they watch TV in her apartment. "Thank you for talking to Mitch," he says.

She shifts to look at him. "I don't know what you're talking about," she lies.

"You're a terrible liar," he laughs. "Your right eye starts twitching and —"

"I told him not to tell you I called him!" she protests. "He's a regular old Benedict Arnold."

He smiles. "Thank you, first of all," he says. "Why'd you call him?"

She sits up. "Are you mad?"

"No! I'm the opposite of mad. Seriously. But why'd you do it?" He tugs her legs onto his lap.

"Why does it matter why I did it?" she asks. "You weren't supposed to find out."

"But why wasn't I supposed to find out?"

"Because I thought you and your brother needed to talk, I guess. And he owed you two grand, which you weren't going to ask him for because you didn't want to come off as a prick even though it's completely not-pricky," she shrugs again, slightly agitated. "But mostly because you two needed to talk, and you weren't going to start it, because you're nice."

"I'm too nice?" he laughs.

"Yes," she says. "You are. You're a nice guy. Even when you're pretending to be an asshole. Or even when you _are _being an asshole. You're a nice guy and deserve to be treated nicely and your brother is a good guy who was being pretty self-involved about what you were doing for him. To put it mildly. So I gave him a gentle reminder. A _secret_ gentle reminder. I'm never telling him a secret again."

"He's not so bad at keeping secrets," he says, smiling at her, since Mitch definitely didn't spill the whole 'oh by the way, Don wants to marry you' thing for the rest of the day. "But thank you. That … It means a lot to me. You … You're amazing, you know that?"

"You're not so bad yourself," she smiles, kissing him lightly. He kisses her back, then kisses her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her forehead. She smiles, arches her neck to give him access. He is completely, one hundred percent serious. He's going to ask her to marry him. Soon.

He just needs to figure out how.

**It's gonna be spectacular. **


	5. Anything You Wanted Baby

Hi all! Thanks so much for keeping up with these! Your reviews really keep me motivated and I hope I replied to everyone who left a signed review. This one is obviously pretty far in the future (post-the second), and it doesn't really have a point, but it's conversations and it's cute. And for those interested in TTF, there should be an update very, very soon!

As always, I don't own the characters or the song titles.

* * *

_October_

"Are you making a list of _baby _names?" Will asks incredulously, peering over her shoulder during the pretaped segment right before she's on.

"Yep," she says. "Now that we know it's a boy, we need to start thinking of names. You'd think he'd be gung-ho about Maynard or Milton, but nope." She adds _Timothy_ to the list. "What do you think of Devon?"

Pregnancy involves a lot of decisions that Sloan alternately thinks are dumb — Bugaboo vs. UPPAbaby; drop waist vs. tunic tops — and important but downright trivial — which kind of stretch-mark cream to buy (the entire concept of stretch-mark cream was kind of appalling). This one, though, is kind of big, she has to admit.

Will snatches the list from her. "Aidan. Ethan. Jacob. Wyatt. Daniel. Zachary, Jordan, Joshua, Benjamin, Parker, Nolan, Gabriel. Elijiah — God, don't do Elijah. Or Nolan, or Gabriel. Christ, Sloan, some of these are _terrible_."

"What about Patrick?" she asks, pulling it back and adding it to the list. "No. Patrick Keefer has way too many k-sounds in it. And sounds Irish and neither of us is Irish. I'm Japanese, Dutch, and English; Don is German and — actually, he might be Irish. But still. The k's." She crosses it out frantically.

"The outgrowth isn't getting your last name too?" Will's been on this kick lately where he comes up with semi-derogatory pet names for the baby. Last week it was the 'bodysnatcher.'

"No, actually that was a pretty easy decision," she sighs. She's not particularly tied to her last name, is really only keeping it because of professional reasons, and because changing it legally sounds complicated. "Sabbith-Keefer sounds like how someone with a cold would refer to rabbi." She writes down _Peter_, _Andrew_, _Jack, Jonathan, _and _Ian._

"Sabbith-Keefer, Sabbath keeper, that's funny. You're funny," Will says, writing something that Mac tells him down. "What about Will? Good, strong name."

"Alright, switch. And absolutely not, Will," Don says, coming up to her and holding out a piece of paper. She exchanges their sheets and he walks away, easily flipping the paper onto his clipboard as he does producery things. She looks at his list as they come back from the pretape. She yaks for three minutes about the latest drama in the Senate Banking Committee, subtly crossing out _Jasper, Michael, _and _Hudson _as she talks. She likes Samuel, so she leaves that.

"What the hell are you two doing?" Will asks when they go to commercial. She's done for the night, so she starts unwinding her mic and standing up.

"We have to come up with a name, so we're each making lists, and then crossing names we hate off of each other's list. It's modeled after a Delphi study. Eventually, we'll be left something we both like. And it keeps us both honest. For instance, Matthew," she says, crossing it off. "He actually put his own nephew's name on the list. As if his mother wouldn't notice." She shakes her head. She's got enough trouble with his mother as-is. "Veto."

"You know, in the olden days, people didn't even know what _gender_ they were having, let alone come up with a name ahead of time."

"Yeah, but even in the olden days, they were still fifty-fifty. There's not much room for surprise there. 'Oh, it's a boy. Why, that is just out of left field, I was expecting a kitten,'" she intones. "No. Not how that happens," she stares at the list. "And _veto_," she says. "Parker Keefer also sounds like the name of a mobster."

"What mob movies have you been watching?"

"Or a law firm," she looks at the next suggestion. "Cooper. Cooper Keefer. He thinks that's a good idea?" She shakes her head.

"And you like _Nolan _Keefer?" he says. "It sounds like both of you are just … going through a baby name book and selecting increasingly ridiculous names."

She glares at him. "We're _spitballing_. It's creative."

"You honestly think either of you will actually name a child Nolan or Cooper or Blakely or Spork or whatever the hell else you put on that list? No. He'll be a Jonathan or Michael or Timothy and that's _great_. Those are _good _names. Just talk the damn thing out with each other."

She writes down _Spork_ as she walks away. Because it's worth a veto.

"Switch?" Don asks when she finds him in the newsroom at one of his APs work station, swinging his piece of paper. "I really am not a fan of Nolan, gotta say."

"Do you think we're overdoing this?" she asks as they switch. "Did you _really_ want to name a kid Cooper Keefer? Please tell me you weren't going to go down swinging for that one."

He looks at his list. "Yeah, I did put that down," he grimaces. "I'm not — that's not — no. I put my foot down," he shakes his head. "Not that name."

"I'm really going to fight you on that one, pal," she says. "We don't like half these names. We can't name a kid something we don't like. I just wrote down _Spork. _As a joke, yes, because it's _funny_," she can't help get sidetracked. "But we can't name this kid _Spork_; he'll get mocked in middle school_._" For some reason, whether it's the hour or the fact that she's been going for hours or the damn hormones, this is _upsetting_. And she does not like to get upset.

"Probably in daycare too," he mutters, before getting a good look at her. "Hey," he says, touching her elbow. "_We got time_. We'll stop picking them this way. Let's just go through a book together."

She nods, suddenly tired. Actually, it's not so sudden: She started hosting the 7 p.m. hour right after they got back from the Thailand trip that led to this pregnancy; coupled with the four o'clock _Wrap Up_ (which she kept), and regular appearances on _News Night_ and _The Lead-In_, their 5-7 show, she's on a lot of TV. Don refuses to book her on Elliot anymore, which is fine because some nights she falls asleep in his office waiting for Elliot's show to end.

The pregnancy has been good for them overall, thankfully. He does come out of his office to yell at whatever producer is in charge when he sees her standing up on air, which she reminds him is completely unnecessary and sexist, but she also thinks it's (a little) sweet (though definitely aggravating). But mostly he's been uncomplaining, easygoing (with her. Never with his poor APs), and upbeat; the usual Don. He gives her foot massages and comes to every doctor's appointment and has a tiny square ultrasound photo propped up on his computer (she teared up when she saw him put it up, because, hormones).

She waits around most nights until Elliot's show is done so that he doesn't worry about her getting home alone, and still carries Saltines with her everywhere she goes, because for some reason it reassures him. They laugh a lot — pregnancy is kind of absurd — and she's in the perpetually-turned-on stage, which they're both liking a lot more than the morning sickness stage. There's something weirdly fun and exciting about it all, two words she never thought she would use to describe gaining a bunch of weight and growing a tiny human. Don's always a good person to have on an adventure.

But they haven't spoken about what happens when the baby arrives. She _does not want _to give up her show, but she has honestly zero clue about how they might handle their jobs and a baby. Between that and the name list that includes Nolan and Cooper and a nursery that currently has four blank walls, she's pretty sure they're massively underprepared. And it's beginning to freak her out.

"I think I'm going to cab home now," she says, checking the clock. It's 8:37, and she started the day with a run and a pre-tape before a class from 8:30-10. She's allowed to be tired.

Don's brow furrows in concern. "You sure? You want to wait until Mac's done so she can take you home?"

"It's a cab, forty blocks, before 9 p.m. Pretty sure I'm going to be safe from the morlocks and the _Night Court_ crazies," she quips.

"Ok, is this one of the times that I'm being awesome when I walk you out and kiss you goodbye, or when doing those things make me an asshole?"

"I think I'll get irritated and say you're coddling me."

"Oh right, option 3," he says. "Then I'm not walking you out." He leans in to kiss her, and she grabs his forearm to prolong the peck, in case her decision upset him.

She tells the cabbie 88th and Riverside, still savoring the newness of the address. They've just passed their one-year in the apartment and she still feels like she's settling in, sometimes. Mostly when she takes a deep breath and realizes that, eighteen months ago, she had barely even started to think that maybe, this thing with Don was going to unfurl long-term. Thinking back gives her a warm, complete feeling.

The condo is shiny and new. They purchased it knowing that the three-bedroom prewar was going to be tight if they ever had more than one kid, but figuring that they had enough time. That, of course, was PP (how she refers to those first blissful, pre-pregnancy months of marriage. How naive they were), and now she's concerned about what might happen if they're good enough with this one that they decide for a second.

She thinks they might be decent at it. Don will be. He's short-tempered and can be sarcastic with adults, but he's always gentle and patient with her and their nieces and nephews. He's good in a crisis, and good at reading people. She's a little worried about herself — mostly, she's worried about how the hell the career-mother balance will work — but figures she'll figure it out as they go along.

Clem is still at ACN with Don, so the apartment is quiet. She flips on the lights, then the TVs, then pads through to the kitchen to find something to eat. All they seem to have is oatmeal, so she takes it. Once it's heated up and she smothers it in raspberries, she takes it into the nursery and sits down. It used to be the office, but they've consigned that extra furniture to the guest bedroom, and now it's relatively empty, with just three catalogs and some paint swatches on the floor.

Don finds her there, two hours later, a solid rock of cold oatmeal next to her. "Hey," he says, leaning in the doorframe and studying her. "How's the view from there?"

"You look good," she sighs.

"But the room itself does not?" he guesses, moving to sit next to her, and she sighs. "Come on. We've got four months."

"We've got fourteen and a half weeks, no real name, no paint, no furniture, no baby clothes, no nanny, no idea what hours we want the nanny to work or if we want her to speak Japanese to him or not, no idea if _I _want to speak Japanese with him or not," she retorts. "We're … two of Neal's flings away from this kid. _That_ is how much time we have left, pal."

"Aright, one sec," he says, getting up to move.

"Where are you going?"

"It's midnight, and I can feel that we're about to make some major decisions. We need ice cream, and there's some in the freezer."

She quickly grabs her bowl of concrete oatmeal and hands it to him. "Ooh, get me some too?"

He rolls his eyes. "Of course."

He's back a few seconds later, and she shifts onto her hip to face him as she eats. The bump isn't quite big enough to eat off of, though she has tried. "I have been thinking," she says, stealing a bite from his bowl first, and smiling when he makes a face, "about the name."

"Ok, and?"

"What do you think about my dad's name for a middle name?" she asks. "I don't want a hyphenate. I think our last names sound atrocious together in any way, shape, or form. But it's his first grandson, and none of his grandkids will ever have his last name probably, so I think it would be … nice."

He smiles. "So Something Thomas Keefer?"

"Yeah," she leans her head back. "But I don't know if we can just _pick _a name ahead of time. Like, what if we love the name Chester, and then we see him and he's so _not_ a Chester?" She sighs and smooths a hand over her burgeoning belly contemplatively.

"If we decide on the name Chester I think we have bigger problems," he sets down the ice cream. "I'm worried about us getting carried away and ending up with an Emmanuel Keefer."

"You're worried that I'm going to lose it once I've gone through labor," she says, half-jokingly. "It's ok. You can say it."

"I _really_ don't want a kid named Maynard," he says, resting a hand over hers. "And I have a feeling that after _this _happens and you've done this … amazing and also completely scary thing, I'm not going to be able to say no. And then we're going to have a kid named Maynard."

She laughs, nuzzling his neck. "You sure? Tell me how you really feel," she inhales his scent. "I promise no Maynard. Andrew, Sam, Jonathan. Normal, normal names."

"Normal-first-name Thomas Keefer," he says. "What about nursery? You know, I was googling it at work, and I think a safari-themed room would be cool."

"Safari-themed?" she asks, instantly charmed by the thought of a stressed-out Don googling nursery themes.

"Yeah. I was thinking kids' books for awhile, you know, like Dr. Seuss or something, but I kinda like this. It's like, green walls and giraffes and everything."

She laughs, and takes a deep breath. It sounds a little cliche, but also do-able and adorable. "Ok. Safari-themed. I like it." They start digging through the paint chips and surfing for baby furniture on Don's iPad, bookmarking pieces to order the next morning.

Don yawns first, as they're debating Bonavita versus Babyletto versus Ikea (she is _obsessed_ with a Bonavita crib, and she will win), and she suddenly feels bad. "C'mon, bed." She knows he actually tired when he doesn't protest at all.

He's asleep before she finishes washing her face, though he instinctively moves to spoon her when she tiptoes into bed. But she can't sleep and after an hour of wakefulness, she mutes the TV and slides to a sitting position.

Don's a terrible sleeper, so he wakes up immediately. "Go back to sleep," she admonishes when he starts to stir.

"Garumpishbibble," he mumbles, kissing her thigh where her shirt's risen up. She's not sure if he's out, but he's quiet.

But she still can't sleep. When he stirs again she pokes him. She does feel bad, but she hisses his name anyways.

"I'm up," he says, jumping to a sitting position. "I'm up. Are you OK?"

She stares. "Did you think I was in _labor_?"

"No," he says, "but it's 2:30 in the morning, so I was … alarmed." His voice is fuzzy with sleep, and he yawns. His hair is going in about sixty-two directions.

"No, it's … what are we going to do about my show?"

He settles back down, apparently less worried now that she's physically ok. "What happened to your rundown?"

"Not tomorrow's. When the baby comes."

He's struggling valiantly to stay awake, which she appreciates. "You signed a three-year contract, so you're going to take maternity leave and then go back. If you quit your job I'll divorce you," he jokes.

"Don't be stupid, I'm not doing that," she says. "Just … Where's the baby going to be?"

"We'll get a nanny, like we said we would," he yawns. "We'll look it up online tomorrow, ok? Or you can put an ad up at Columbia. There's plenty of child-psych majors there."

"You think a nanny will want to work until 8? Really?" she says skeptically.

"Or I'll hold him," he says. "Look, I don't have to go in until 11, let's be honest. I get there early because you're there. So I'll stay home, then we'll have the nanny come, then you'll take him home. Or something. We still have fourteen and a half weeks, plus three months of parental leave to work this out and I promise, Sloan, we will. We will look at the kid, and we will find a name and it will be perfect; we will decorate the nursery and I will paint walls and get Mac to plan a baby shower so we will have clothes and toys and all the random crap that babies require, like hats and … rattles and bottles and … is somebody giving you crap about being a working mother? Or being ready? Or is this just nesting? Because if it's the former, I will kick their ass for you."

She shrugs. "Will didn't really like the name Cooper Keefer."

"I would hit us if we named him Cooper Keefer," he smiles, bleary-eyed. He yawns again. "Ok. It would probably be wiser if we had this discussion, say, tomorrow, after a few hours' sleep, but what's up? Come on. Something's bugging you."

"I don't know," she sighs, and it sucks, because she can't articulate it. "Just … there's so much to do. What if we're not ready?" Don's eyes closed in his _oh god_ look. "I'm serious!" she whines, suddenly nervous. "Have you changed a diaper? I haven't changed a diaper."

"Well, no," he says. "But everyone has a first diaper at some point."

"Yeah! On a niece or a nephew or some neighbor's kid. Not on _their _kid."

"Sloan, you're great at everything, we'll figure it out," he tucks her hair behind her ear. He then gets distracted combing her hair with his fingers — she imagines it's pretty messy. "But … yeah. I'm not trying to freak you out, but is anyone ready? I mean, your parents were borderline-destitute grad students. Mine … you know what, my parents aren't a helpful example. But he'll get here and it'll probably be … a lot. But we'll figure it out. We always do."

"That's what you got?" she says skeptically.

"I mean, it's 3 a.m. so my pep talks probably aren't too peppy," he says. "But seriously. It'll be overwhelming … There will be some late nights … We won't have a clue what we're doing … It'll be stressful to figure it out with work and everything else. But that's what we do, alright? We'll divide and conquer. Same way we do with a show, alright?"

"You whispering dirty things into my ear?"

"No — splitting the duties. Talking through the problem. Give and take. Being … honest with each other. Laughing," he yawns again. "That's how we'll do this." He lilts into the pillow a little, and she knows he's going to fall asleep soon. "Look. We'll order the furniture in the morning, alright? And we'll get Mac and Will to come over and paint the bedroom and I'll assemble the furniture and we'll be set, alright?"

She nods, finally beginning to feel sleepy too. "Alright. But you're not assembling the furniture."

"I'm handy," he protests sleepily.

"Chair tires," she reminds him, closing her own eyes and sliding closer to him.

**He falls asleep halfway through kissing her forehead. **


	6. This Love Will Never Fade Away

Hey friends! So I normally don't like writing huge moments in this series (as you can tell, most of these are snapshots of little-but-important-moments), but this snowballed from a bromantic Don and Elliot ring-shopping trip into the proposal, which I hope I gave some justice too. And it has Will mocking Don, which is always fun. And a little post-P3-13ish behavior between Don and Sloan. And, did I mention, a proposal?

This makes a lot more sense if you've also read the third oneshot in this series, which has everything from Sloan's POV. I'm sorry it's so long, but hopefully it lives up to what you hoped for! Would love to hear thoughts. ~Jo

* * *

_July_

Don pops his head into Elliot's office. "Got a sec?" he asks.

"Sure," Elliot says. "What's up?"

"Here's the thing," Don starts. "Wait. You know what? Never mind."

"What?"

"It's nothing?"

"Are you ok?"

"Peachy."

"Because you look like you're about to shit your pants. And then curl up into a fetal position. And possibly vomit."

"I can't look that bad."

"However bad you think you look, multiply it by about six thousand, and then we're talking. You need to find your cha."

Don glares at him. "What are you up to this weekend?"

Elliot shrugs. "Ava's got a soccer game on Sunday."

"Ok. Great. You're busy. Thanks!"

"Don, fucking tell me what's up or I'm going to get Sloan in here. I'm not a patient man, Keefer."

"Nooooooo, you can't get Sloan in here."

"I swear to God Don —" Elliot starts, his voice escalating.

"I have an appointment at Cartier tomorrow and I don't know what I am looking for," Don says, his words in a rush.

Elliot raises his eyebrows. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"Whoa."

"Basically said that already."

"This is big."

"Little bit."

"Congrats."

"I get it, alright?"

"You think she'll say yes?"

"I figured I'd drop a ridiculous amount of money on this thing and then turn around three times and spit," Don says. "We've discussed it. A ... little bit. It's been discussed."

"You've discussed this," Elliot raises an eyebrow.

"You know, generally. We had this talk, about it, in May, and now I do this thing, where I ask her every day."

"You what?"

"As a — as a _thing_. It's more of an 'I want to marry you whenever you want to marry me' thing," he explains, pacing. This is incredibly hard to discuss while still sounding manly. "It's our thing."

"You've been asking her to marry you _without_ a ring? Dude," Elliot shakes his head. "You don't do that to a woman. Even Sloan. _Especially _Sloan. You bring your A-game for this. Dinner, ring at the bottom of a glass of champagne, brass bands, maybe some choreography. A speech. For god's sake, at least come up with a _speech._"

"It's romantic! It's our thing," Don protests. "It started like, I don't know, three months ago. She's got this thing where she doesn't want to move in with anyone until she's engaged —"

"Of course Sabbith doesn't," Elliot shakes his head.

"Anyways. So I ask her to move in with me every day," he says. "I'm _actually_ asking her to marry me when I say that. She knows it. And sometimes she laughs and sometimes she says when I learn how to fold laundry and sometimes she says she needs more time and sometimes she says when Charlie starts going to Alcoholics Anonymous. You know. It's our thing."

"So why are you buying the ring now? Cat's out of the bag, why don't you wait till you seal the deal?"

"Mixed metaphors, Elliot, disappointing," he says.

"I'm serious. You've already goofed on making it a surprise, you're on this weird warpy casual thing, why not just wait till she says yes?"

"It's going to be soon, and I want to be ready," he says.

"Do you have a plan? You know, for when the non-asking gets old."

He shrugs. "I didn't say I had it all worked out and was going to _ask_ tomorrow. Anyways. You gotta come with me. You're the only person I trust that's done this."

"I think that says more about you than me."

"Great. The appointment is at three. And, you know, please don't tell her."

Elliot snorts. "Yes, because I would hate to ruin the surprise of this all."

And so the next day, feeling slightly like a fraud, Don meets Elliot at Cartier's Fifth Ave flagship. He's got Sloan's high school class ring, which he swiped from her jewelry box last week, in one pocket, his AmEx card in the other, and is practically vibrating with nerves.

"This is it," Elliot says as they walk in. "Biggest purchase of your life."

"Yup. It is."

"Well, until you buy a house, or pay for your kids' college tuition. Or elementary school tuition, even. Do you think you guys will stay in the city? You seem like the type. Have you talked about kids? What about private school?"

"Not helping, Elliot."

"Do you know what you're looking for?"

He turns. "A _ring_, Elliot."

"No, I mean, cushion cut or marquis cut, gold or platinum, the little pave diamonds or no."

He stops. "Oh my god. I have no idea." He's so flustered he forgets to mock Elliot.

"What has she said?"

"About what?"

"About what type of ring she wants?"

"Why would I ask her? It's a surprise."

Elliot stares. "You have to _ask_ her what type of ring she wants."

"It's a surprise!"

"Oh my god. We're going into a diamond store ready to drop two or three months' worth of your salary based on your _gut_."

"Hey. I have good taste." Elliot starts laughing. "Oh, come on. Give me a little credit."

"Uh, we're ring shopping with _no idea_ of what you want in _Cartier_. You have sucker tattooed on your forehead. They are going to rob you blind and make you to beg for the privilege."

"Hi, I have an appointment," he says to the first attendant he sees, before he loses it. "Uh, Don, Don Keefer. For, you know …"

"Engagement rings?" the unimpressed, nattily dressed clerk asks. "Yes, I can tell." He signals to a woman, who strolls over. "Anna, it's your three o'clock. Don Keefer?"

Anna is tiny, older, and probably Russian. "Wonderful to meet you," she says, with a smile that signals it's anything but. "You are looking for an engagement ring, yes?"

"Yes. For my girlfriend," he says. "This is … he's a friend."

"Naturally," Anna smiles. "Come. This way." She leads them to a narrow mahogany desk with a glass top and two plush green chairs. He sits down gingerly and Elliot lingers awkwardly, leaning his large frame against a wall. "Now, how would you describe your girlfriend? Her personality? Jewelry preferences?"

"Uh, she's awesome. She's, um, she's super-smart, _really_ funny, about five-four, she likes … clothes. And economics journals and pad Thai at midnight. She's classy. Like, really, really classy. And funny. I said funny, right?"

"Alright. What type of jewelry does she wear? Does she wear more gold or platinum, for instance?"

"Uh, she likes both?" he tries. "She doesn't like tons of jewelry. Like, she wears earrings. Tiny ones though. With, you know, little diamonds? And necklaces. And sometimes watches. Those are mostly gold though. And her favorite watch is black." Elliot snickers behind him. "But they're like, smaller watches. Not …you know," he gestures helplessly.

Anna purses her lips. "Why don't I bring out a few trays and you can tell me what you think she might like?"

"Yes! I mean, sure. That would be great." Anna nods, and leaves.

Elliot starts laughing. "This is going real well, here."

"How did _you_ pick Jeannie's ring?"

He shrugs. "Easy. She did. We were walking past a jewelry store, and she went _look at that one right there third from the left, I like it a lot_."

"Ok, you give me crap for telegraphing to Sloan that I want to get married, and you had Jeannie pick out her own fucking ring?"

Anna returns with a tray. "We have a few to start with. Please, tell me what you think of these."

He stares at them. "Definitely not the pointy-style ones or the round ones," he says, pointing to a marquis-cut one and then a round one. "They're … She's not them, you know? She's super-strong, and she's completely feminine, but those are just, I don't know, too girly? Like she's not going to have one of those big ball gowns for a wedding dress. Those are ballgown rings. And nothing too blingy. She's not into a lot of bling."

"Alright, no 'ballgown' rings," Anna says, working her mouth around the words like it's a foreign language or something. "And no bling."

"And, you know what, I like gold. It's different, I know —" he doesn't actually know, but about three-fourths of the rings she's showing him are platinum or white gold, so he figures it is, "but they're way more like Sloan. They're classic. She's _super_ classic. And they're striking, and more unique. That's more her. She's not really trendy, and she doesn't wear a lot of flashy stuff. Like, if you look at a picture of her from now in 20 years, you won't be able to tell what year the photo was in. She'll still look great. I mean, I'll _always_ think she looks great, but, you know. Objectively. She'll look great. She's got, you know, a timeless look." He fully realizes he's rambling, and he completely blames Sloan for that trait. "Can I see more of the square ones? I like that. They look super … strong. She would like those too."

Anna nods. "Square ones that look super strong and are gold and not ballgowny or blingy." She walks off.

He turns to Elliot. "We're getting somewhere!" Elliot rolls his eyes helplessly.

She brings out a smaller tray. All of the rings on it were square-looking and gold. "These over here, that are more rectangular, are called emerald cut. These, which are more square, are called cushion-cut." She looks at him as if he is a very simple child. "Now, would you prefer a setting with pave diamonds?"

"Come again?"

"Tiny diamonds on the outside," she explains, pointing. "No tiny diamonds on the outside," she points to another one.

He scans the trays and zeros in on one. He picks it up carefully. It's an emerald-cut diamond, surrounded by lots of the tiny pave diamonds, with a band that splits into two bands on either side, which inherently looks more supportive. There are more tiny diamonds on the four legs supporting the big diamond. It looks slightly vintage but mostly classic — the band is gold — and delicate and strong all at once, and definitely not like something he's ever seen before. It's not too big or flashy, both of which she would hate. Most importantly, it looks like something Sloan would wear, and love, and be proud of, and that their daughters (if they had them) and granddaughters would want to borrow. He holds it up to Elliot, who sucks in a breath and nods.

"This one," he says.

She picks it up from him. "This is a 3-carat emerald-cut diamond in a split-shank 18-karat rose gold setting, with an additional .75 carats in pave diamonds. The diamond is an impeccable specimen — color grade E, with a very good cut and a very, very slightly included clarity." All of those things mean nothing to him.

"That's a good ring, bro." Elliot says. "You should get it."

He fishes out the class ring. "This is hers, from high school. She still wears it. I figured you could use it for size comparisons. Will this one fit?"

Anna peers at both. "No, it is too big. We can re-size this. It should take about two weeks."

"Two weeks," he sits back.

"Do you need it more quickly, for a special proposal?" she probes.

"No. No, no. I honestly have no idea how I am proposing. Take all the time you need." Anna scribbles a lot of information down, and then takes his Amex, and processes many things, and then reminds him to get the ring added to his insurance — oh, fuck yes, that is happening — and then, excruciatingly, he signs about sixty papers and promises to return in fourteen days. The ring is more than he had budgeted, but he figures that this is the only time he's going to buy one of these, so he's going to say screw it. He walks out in a daze.

"Should I have asked her her opinion? Shit. I should have asked her for her opinion. That was a really expensive mistake."

"Dude," Elliot claps him on his shoulder. "That ring is perfect. But let's get you drunk before you realize just how much money you spent."

"It's four p.m."

"And you're a few years' worth of college tuition poorer. Come on. You handled that mostly on your own. Least I can do is buy you a beer."

They end up at a bar a few blocks away, and Don leans his head back against the red vinyl seat as Elliot tracks down tricks. It feels all swimmy. Maybe he should put it between his knees. Elliot places a beer and a shot of whiskey in front of him. "Drink the whiskey first," Elliot orders.

"Oh my god I just bought an engagement ring," he says, rubbing his face.

"What happened to Mr. 'I'm good, I ask her to marry me every day'?"

"That guy just _bought_ an _engagement_ ring! What do I do with it?"

Elliot slides into the booth, rubbing his own wedding ring with his thumb. "I think you ask her to marry you."

"How did you ask Jeannie? Brass band, ring in a champagne glass, everything, really?"

Elliot laughs. "Well, I had this whole thing planned. We were young — she was still in law school, Christ, and living in the _shittiest_ apartment in New Haven — and since I'd just dropped all the money I had on the ring, I figured, might as well be economical. So I baked a lasagna and I was going to, you know, put the ring on top of the tiramisu, and make this speech, and it was going to be great. But then she got sick and didn't want to leave _her _apartment, so I thought, great, I'll go over and make everything at her place. But then the ovens were different and the thing burned, and then when I was taking it out of the oven her stupid cat that I _hated_ jumped up on me, so I dropped the damn thing on the floor and she came in because it was loud and we started fighting and there was this big whole mess so we're yelling and she's upset that I wanted to do a big fucking thing since she was sick so I just … proposed," he shrugs. "Got down on my knee in the middle of the spilled lasagna and gave her my speech and everything."

"Whoa, wait. You were giving me shit for asking her to move in with me — which is our _thing_ so therefore _awesome_ — and you proposed with tomato sauce on your knee?"

"I gave a speech and it made her cry. You're doing what, exactly? Asking her to move in with you every day as part of a, what? A thing?"

Don stares. "Maybe, I … we go on a vacation."

"It's July. There's an election in four months. When are the two of you going to get the time?"

"We're going to the Republican convention together!"

"It's in _Tampa_."

"Good point. Uh … horse carriage ride! Central Park!"

"Isn't Sloan allergic?"

"Shit."

Elliot stares. "Ok, let's think about what you're going to say."

Don puts his head down and whimpers.

He's weird all week. Sloan asks him twice, semi-seriously, if he's dying or if they're breaking up. "Uh … no?" he says.

"You sure? If either of those things are happening, some advance warning would be nice," she says, stealing a piece of broccoli out of his container of Thai food.

He can't say anything, so he leans forward and kisses her. "Move in with me?" he asks, because he hasn't said that yet that day.

She smirks and snatches another bite. "After you get better taste in Thai food."

He finally gets a call from Anna informing him that the ring is ready for pickup, and he practically trips into Elliot's office. "What do I do when I _get _the ring?"

Elliot stares at him, long and hard. "You _ask_ her to marry you."

"Right," he inhales. "Ok."

He cuts out of work when Sloan's on at four, cabbing to the store. "I'm here," he says to the same unimpressed guy up front. "I need to talk to Anna."

"Right this way," the guy says, leading him to the same tiny desk. "Wait here."

Anna comes up and says, "Yes. Mr. Keefer. Hello," she smiles tightly. "We have your ring."

"Can I … see it?"

"Of course. It's yours," she places it in front of him. He pops it open and, dear god, he can hear the angels singing. He blinks at its sparkliness. "Whoa."

"It's a lovely ring," she says, sounding genuine for the first time. "She's a lucky woman. You made a great choice."

He smiles, and wonders wear to put it (his pocket?), thanks her, and heads out, holding it gingerly. Once he gets back to ACN, he sneaks into Elliot's office and puts the ring on his desk.

"Thanks, but I'm already taken," Elliot says. "Seriously. Why are you putting this here?"

"Where else do you put it?!" Don says.

"That's ... actually a fair question," Elliot says. "Oh — Will has a safe. Put it in Will's office."

"You want me to tell _Will_ about this?"

"Tell me about what?" Will says from behind, because of course.

"Oh dear god my life is ending," Don says as Will enters.

"Don just got a ring for Sloan. Here, look," Elliot tosses it to Will as Don makes a strangled sound he doesn't really recognize. Will catches it ably. "He needs a place to store it for a few days; can he keep it in your safe?"

"I'm … taking it home tonight. I am. I just … could you store it until then?"

Will pops it open and whistles. "Nice job. Cartier?"

"Her dad bought her a necklace from there when she graduated Duke; it's her favorite."

"How are you going to ask her?"

"Yeah. Still working that one out."

"Do you want to keep it in the safe until then?"

"No, I'll take it home. Put it in my sock drawer."

"She'll find it," Will points out.

"Yeah, I don't care."

"You _want _her to marry you, right?"

"Yeah. We talked this out months ago. She doesn't want a big snazzy proposal with the champagne glasses and the tiramisu and the brass band."

"All women want the _romance_. And the surprise," Will argues.

Don raises his eyebrow, because if _Will_ thinks he's going to take _his_ romantic advice, he's got to be kidding. "Yeah, you think _any_ of that is her idea of romance?" he asks. "No. We were talking, and I asked her how she saw us getting married. She said she wanted something low-key — we're talking City Hall. We just _decide_, she said, and then we do it. And I'm there. I'm on board. The ring … this is just so I'm set." He thinks about when he asked Maggie to move in with him, how generic and cheesy and terrible it was. He's not going to do something like that with Sloan. "She knows I'm serious and we both know where this is going. If she finds the ring, what the hell. The ring doesn't change anything about our current state, and if I decide I want to propose _right now_ I don't want to have to come back here and grovel in front of you two and get all … flustered. I want the ring ready to go when we decide to make this official," he shrugs, feeling more confident. "I ask her every day, and I'm serious. When she thinks it's right, it's right. And hell, it could be tomorrow. So I'm taking it home tonight." He nods definitively.

Will turns to Elliot. "Are we supposed to feel proud of young Padawan here?"

Elliot just shakes his head and purses his lips. "No. We are not." Elliot turns back to him. "Let me get this straight. You're just going to put it in your sock drawer, not care if she sees it, then continue to half-assedly ask each day and wait for her answer to change?"

"He looks like he understands women, I would listen," Will adds. Don thinks Will's trying to be funny, but he's not sure. From the looks of it, Elliot isn't either.

"What I'm asking is whether you're sure — _sure_ — that Sloan is on the same page as you with your stoner-kid approach to proposing? That she doesn't think you're, you know, _joking_?" Elliot says. He cocks his head, because he's pretty sure it's romantic.

"Uh, yes," he says, suddenly not quite sure at all.

"When do you want to marry Sloan?" Will says.

"When?"

"Yeah. You've been dating for eight months, which seems fast—"

"To you," Don points out, because he's feeling petulant, and because they've all had to deal with the Mac-and-Will merry-go-round for years. Low blow, he admits.

Will rolls his eyes. "Fine. You say you've talked about this, so. When do you want to get married? Or engaged? This year? Next year? Two years?"

He nods, processing. "Uh. No. Soon," he nods again. "Soon."

"Ok. So what if your whole 'move in with me' schtick doesn't take in say, two months? What are you going to do then?" Elliot asks, catching Will's drift. "I'm just saying, maybe you should make _sure_ that the whole asking-daily thing is going to pay off soon. Or maybe you need a plan B."

It's food for thought. He elects to walk around with the ring in his pocket, just in case, and because he doesn't trust Will to give him the ring back. He's very happy that Sloan thinks his place is good for the evening, since he honestly had not thought that much about where to hide it at Sloan's.

She waits at Hang Chew's for him to finish, and they head home together. He sneaks into the bedroom and folds the box into a pair of socks, then freaks out and simply sets it _under_ some socks, since a lot of his socks are black and he's worried that he might forget which pair he used.

When he comes out of his bedroom he follows the music to the kitchen. She's at the sink, listening to some of her jazzy stuff on an iPad, doing dishes from god knows when. The whole scene — her barefoot, in his kitchen, after midnight, swaying to one of those songs that cuts you deep to the bone — makes him just so goddamn _happy_. She's barefoot in a plain plum T-shirt and black jeans and no makeup and the certainty with which he wants _this _every night, in this kitchen or in another kitchen they remodel together or next to a dumpster in Times Square, is overwhelming.

He slides behind her, linking his hands around her stomach. She jumps a little, but settles back into him. "Hey," she murmurs, her lips against his neck. "Want to help with the dishes?"

"Mmmm," he demurs, then kisses her temple. "Move in with me," he asks, because he hasn't asked today.

"Can't, the dishes aren't done yet," she teases, but she drops the soapy dish to twist in his arms, sliding her wet hands around his neck. He shudders at their coolness as she kisses him.

"I love you," he says, seriously and suddenly, as they break away.

She grins, that delighted, surprised grin that sometimes he just doesn't _get_, because _of course_ he loves her. She brings a hand up to his face, thumbs his cheekbone, and says, "I love you too," with a firm, final tone in her voice.

"What's this song?" he asks, as he begins to sway them.

She tilts her head to the side, shoves the heel of her hand into his shoulder lightly. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?"

"I probably play this song about _twenty_ times a week. You don't know its name?"

"It sounds familiar," he says, because it does, but when he listens to music, it's usually either rap, or rock-ier than whatever this is. "It's nice. I _like_ it," he says, because it is nice and he does like it.

"It's Ray LaMontagne," she says, as the song shifts. "I listen to him _all the time_."

"Well what's this one called?"

She listens for a second. "'Let It Be Me,'" she replies. "It's my second favorite."

"Which one's your favorite?"

She blushes a little. "You'd recognize it - it's got the trumpets. 'You are the Best Thing.'"

He twists, keeping an arm around her, and finds it on her iPad. She's right, he does recognize it. As they're dancing to it, he murmurs, again, "Move in with me."

She pulls back. "That's the second time you asked. You never ask twice."

"I'm serious about it, you know that, right?" he searches her face, and swallows, a little nervously. "This isn't a joke, you know that right?"

"Don," she says, in a hushed voice, stopping dancing. Suddenly, the joyful, open-hearted song feels massively incongruous. "Of course I know it's not a joke," she bites her lip, suddenly nervous, worried that maybe she did something wrong, and scratches at the nape of his neck. "Were you ever just going _along_ with it, were you, because you thought I was … did you think _I _was joking? Because I'm _not_. "

"No, _I _didn't think you were joking," he says quickly. The emphasis on the 'I' is inadvertent, and he cringes. He hopes she doesn't catch the inflection and start interrogating him.

She doesn't, though. "Ok. Because I do. I just …" she stops.

"What?"

"I was going to say, I just want to be sure, but that's wrong, I am sure," she bites her lip and studies him. "I guess maybe ready is a better word? Do you feel ready? We said … Because we said …"

"We said no drama, we said quickly, we said personal," he repeats, "And I still want that."

"Ok. Yes. That's what we said," she repeats. "And I still do too. So maybe it's more I still don't feel like it's quite right? Wait. That sounds worse. I take that back."

"I get it," he says, quickly, trying to re-rail the conversation.

"No you don't," she says quickly. "Please don't lie to me." She gives him a look, and he nods.

"Sorry," he says, since one of their rules is no lying.

"I get it. Look. I love you. I … _fully _intend on marrying you. When I make a plan, or think about the future, it's with the expectation that you're there too. I think we _should_ get married. I do. And I know you're ready whenever. But do you … _want _to get married _this _weekend? Do you want to be married? Do you think it's time?" Her face is open; her voice is emphatic, trusting, searching.

He thinks for a second, then realizes. "Not if you don't." Part of the fun-and the fear-of this route is the crazy-hopeful-unrealistic expectation that they'll both decide, simultaneously, that it's time. And if she doesn't want to, he doesn't want to.

"Okay. Because it is soon, and what we have is … working and .. I think there's a difference between being ready to _get _married and _wanting_ to _be _married. I want to get married to you; but it's just not complicated by some burning, overwhelming need to do so _now_. I like _this_, for now. Probably not for too much longer but … I'm not sure I'm ready to be married. And I … there's a difference, there is. So I just need a _little_," she holds her fingers apart just a _miniscule_ amount, which is comforting, "more time to be there. And I don't think it's hurting anything, that we're not there yet. I like where we-"

"Hey," he says quickly, because he gets it now. "I get it. I meant it, when I said I just wanted to get married at some point. So if you don't want to yet, I don't want to. We're on the same page," he smiles crookedly. "I just wanted to be sure."

"Why were you ever _not_ sure? Did I …"

"No," he interrupts. "I just … A guy puts himself out there, says he wants to marry you, and it becomes a thing, that's cool. But he wants to make sure it's more than just a schtick. That you're clear on how absolutely I want to … I … love you. I want to marry you. I just wanted to make sure it's clear."

She stops, stands up a little straighter. "Crystal," she assures. She pushes herself up on the balls of her feet, wraps her arms around his neck, kisses him deeply. He walks her back to the counter as she starts working his shirt off.

"What about the dishes?" he mutters.

"Damn the dishes," she says, with spirit, as she twists his arms out of his shirt. He hoists her up as she sheds her own shirt and then bra. When he goes for her jeans, though, she pushes him back. "Bedroom," she commands, hopping down and sliding her hands down his stomach to his belt. "I'm freezing." She walks out of her pants, kicking them onto the floor. She means business.

"No complaints here," he mutters as he follows her, ghosting his hands up her ribs and kissing her neck as they walk. She arches her back, moans a little, reaches her fingers behind her to grab his hair. When they get to his room, he spins her around, focuses on her chest, runs his fingers lower as she leans back onto the bed, shucking his pants as she goes.

She pulls him down with her, wiggles deliciously under him. Just as he's moving to get to work, though, she stills, pulling him up by his cheeks, her legs bracing his body. She licks her lips, and her eyes are potent and smoldering and absolutely serious as she suspends his face above her own. "I mean it, you know," she says. "When I say, 'soon.' I mean soon. Like really soon. So get ready, pal."

He wonders fleetingly if she's intuited the ring already-he wouldn't put it past her to have some sort of Spidey sense about expensive investments. But as he stares at her, he sees some doubt, some uncertainty there-she's worried that if she jumps blind he won't be there holding her hand. Which is so far from true. He's so bound up with her, so tethered by his want and his need to her, for all of her, that he recognizes it's probably impossible to disentangle his from hers at this point. He leans down and kisses her briefly, all lips, nothing else. He moves to her eyes, her nose, her jawline, her cheek, even her forehead, peppering her entire face before finally moving back to stare at her. "You jump, I jump," he says simply. "I jump, you jump. For … all of it," he says, _it_ meaning life, meaning the rest of the decisions he ever makes, because that's what he means. "That's where I am. That's where we are, ok? We're here, together."

A few days later, he notices that his sock drawer has been surreptitiously rifled through and scrupulously rearranged. She knows there's a ring. He wonders if she'll say yes as they're lying on the couch that night, her feet in his lap and her eyes lazily half-closed. But she just smiles and says _soon. _He takes the ring with him when they go to cover the convention together, and asks her to move in again when they're dancing under the balloons after the Journey concert, and she just laughs and says, _really soon_.

And then Genoa and Benghazi and the world blows up, and neither of them get sleep for days. Mac and Sloan get into some spat, and Mac has to send him to tell Sloan about changes to the rundown. He's standing to the side of the camera, bleary-eyed and wearing the same red sweater he's worn for three days, when he casually shoots off, "Move in with me?" at the end of the conversation, because he can't tell up from down and isn't sure if he's asked even once in the last forty-eight hours.

And she surprises the hell out of him. "Sure. This weekend?"

_Fuck_. "Yeah?" Is she really absolutely serious? Because … yes.

"Yeah."

The seventy-two papers slide out of his hands. "Oh — ok," he says, and hops up onto the desk to give her a hard kiss, in front of the staff, who must be absolutely confused. The cameraman coughs awkwardly, and he rushes off-camera, but says to hell with everything else swirling around them, and just _watches_ her. Because she is impressive.

As soon as the show is over, he grabs her away by the elbow, and they walk straight to his office. She's practically giggling, though that might be from deliriousness. He pushes her against the wall, quickly, and kisses her, wrapping his arms around her, losing himself in her. He pulls back, leaving their foreheads touching. "You mean it? You absolutely mean it?"

"Yes," she breathes, searching his face like she doesn't quite believe it either. "And I'm serious about this weekend. Let's just do it," she adds.

"Ok. Wow," he runs his hands through his hair. "Ok. Plans. What were the next steps you had? Let's make this happen."

And somehow, they make it happen. There is plenty of skulking around; one upshot to the whole Genoa mess, to everyone being absolutely driven out of their minds with worry and anger, is that nobody notices when she leaves for three hours to pick out a wedding dress, or when he ducks out for 45 minutes to haggle with the restaurant or try on a suit (gray, with a reddish-pink tie, per Sloan's specifications). His mother calls every five minutes to inquire about hotel rooms and what to tell his (uninvited) aunts; her parents arrive in town on Thursday and call him during _News Night_ since they can't get ahold of Sloan, and he does a metaphorical (and nearly literal) tap-dance to keep them from coming _up_ to the studio. On Friday, they finalize the ACN list: Will, Mac, Elliot, Charlie. They tell Charlie together, and he cries, though he pretends not to. Will breaks out Scotch for both of them and calls people at City Hall on their . Elliot gives him such a resounding _thump_ on his back that he's pretty sure he's going to have a bruised back.

The one downside to doing it the low-key way, and waiting to tell everyone until Monday, is that she's not going to wear the ring in public. But he's got a plan for that. She sticks around late to wait for him — even though there are probably a thousand things she should be doing — so they don't arouse suspicion. As they're walking out, hours after everyone else, she muses, "When we walk in those doors again, we'll be married."

"About that," he says, spinning around to face her. "I asked you one question — _repeatedly_ — but I didn't ask you another important question."

She looks confused. "What are you talking about? Is this about the apartments? Kenzie brought that up and I think we should talk about that —"

He kisses her to stop her from talking and then, still holding her hands, drops to one knee. Her expression changes from confusion to laughter, and she says, "Oh, my god, it's raining, get up, you goon," but tears come to the corner of her eyes as she waits for him to speak.

"Sloan Aiko Sabbith," he starts, smiling, "we have gone about this in an admittedly unorthodox fashion," a smile cracks across his face, "but I wouldn't have it happen in any other way. I love you. In a shout-from-the-rooftops, want-to-actually-learn-something-about-economics, paint-a-kitchen-on-a-Saturday, plan-a-wedding-in-four-days, spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you, way. You are the single best thing that has ever happened to me, and you make me want to always just be better. I am the luckiest guy in the world, and want to spend the rest of my life making you feel the way you make me feel on a random Tuesday. So, Sloan," he says, kind of tearing up, but in a manly way, as he grabs the ring box, "will you marry me? Tomorrow?"

"I said yes four months ago and three days ago, and I meant it," she says, squeezing his fingers. "Yes. Of course. Yes. Now get up, you're going to get sick. You're kneeling in a puddle, Don."

**He finally — ****_finally_**** — ****gets to slip the ring on her finger, and it is as perfect as he pictured when he dragged Elliot to Cartier. And the next day? When he marries her? He's just lucky they remembered to call his buddy the photographer. Because otherwise it's a perfect blur. **


	7. Just because you knock a man down

Hey all! Another installment of "Hearts" here — I've been making good time on these, and struggling a bit with "Thicker than forget," so hopefully this will tide you over. This one is more Sloan than Don, and I'm worried the ending is a little too rushed/artsy, so I'd love to hear your feedback! As per usual, I don't own the characters (minus the wonderful Topher), or the lyrics. Also, there is _definitely _some post-PG-13 allusions here.

* * *

_March _

One of the many things she appreciates about Don is that their definitions of 'dates' are usually equally as lame. Which is why, at midnight and after a 14-hour day at work, they're at Harry's Diner as she grades and he blocks out tomorrow's show. They're comfortably slanted toward each other, her head on his shoulder, a plate of lobster mac'n'cheese and a tomato soup with two spoons between them. She's got a decaf coffee, he has a beer, and she's in what he's dubbed her 'incognito' outfit: ACN hat, glasses, jeans, no makeup and an oversized cardigan buttoned over a T-shirt. It's nice.

"So how significant is the unemployment in the Euro zone? Not in a Sloan Sabbith, 'every economics story is incredibly important way,' in a practical way."

"Incredibly important, especially in a practical way," she says, underlining a sentence in an essay and correcting the grammar. "Why?" She lifts her head to look at him.

"Trying to figure out if we want it in the B-block or the C-block."

"How about the A-block?" she smiles.

"Sloan?" a shadow crosses in front of their booth, and she looks up. Holy God.

"Topher," she says, straightening, since she'd been slouched down far in order to rest her feet on the opposite booth. "Hey."

"Hi," her ex-fiance says, smiling a little awkwardly. "I thought that was you. But you know, the cap…" He's still Harvard handsome, wearing a Burberry coat and (she guesses) Prada shoes.

"Right. Yeah. Long day, lots of hairspray … you know," she smiles, then remembers her manners, though she doesn't stand up. "Topher, this is Don, my boyfriend. Don, this is Topher," no-label-necessary.

Don actually knows all about Topher, has known about the broken engagement for years. He had been the first person at ACN to find out the impetus behind her leaving finance — she'd drunkenly told him after knowing him for all of ten hours ("fast friends" was kind of an understatement). Over the years, they'd talked about him, fairly frequently, as she'd entered and exited the dating pool. But even though he knows about Topher, it has only been in oblique bits and pieces, has only been what she'd felt comfortable telling him. Conversations stopped and started on her terms, in a way they couldn't — wouldn't — if they broached it now. Now that they are sleeping together. Now that they _are_ together.

A woman, super put-together for midnight on a Tuesday, appears next to Topher as Don extends his hand for a shake. Sloan knows she's objectively prettier than this woman — _not that it matters, Sloan_, _be less shallow,_ she scolds herself — but it's intimidating to see someone with a perfect blowout and unwrinkled $500 pants after a 15-hour day.

"Uh, Sloan, this is Amanda Alexander," there's no identifier attached, but it's clear they're at least sleeping together. "Amy, this is Sloan Sabbith. We, uh, we …"

"Dated," Sloan supplies. "A _long_ time ago," she emphasizes, because she _does not want_ to get into the whole broken-engagement-because-he's-a-cheating-bastard side of things. Don gives her a side-eye. He's predisposed not to like Topher, which means he'll get overprotective, which means he'll get arrogant, which means he'll get snarky, which means that he'll run his fat stupid Don Keefer mouth and try and handle it. Which will come from a sweet place but he'll take it too far and absolutely make her livid. She squeezes his thigh in warning.

"Hi," Amanda — Amy — says, then does a double-take. "You look familiar, sorry."

"Sloan worked at Goldman too, a while back. She left … four years ago," Topher supplies.

"Oh, really? I've been in risk management there since 2006. What department?" Amy smiles.

"I was a managing director of forecasting and research," she smiles awkwardly. Amy connects her age to her title, and nods with respect. Yeah, bitch.

"She's on TV now, maybe that's it?" Don asks, clearly trying to toe a line between supportive boyfriend and possessive asshole. She side-eyes him back a bit, because she has this. Mostly.

"Oh really? What kind of TV?"

"News. I'm the chief financial correspondent for ACN and anchor two market shows," her smile is frozen. She actively wants to disappear; she actively wants _them _to disappear.

"Oh, maybe that's it. Toph, do you think that's it?" she nudges Topher.

"Uh … maybe? I don't know," he says. "I … didn't know you were still doing TV, honestly."

"Yup. Every day. Not that hard to verify. You just have to turn on the television to find out. Two and four o'clock. And then eight and sometimes ten," Don smiles, and she really, really wants to stomp on his foot, but that might be obvious.

"Yeah, no, I guess I just figured you'd go back to a bank or, you know, real _economics_ eventually … Anyways," he smiles, "that's great."

"Yeah, it is," she says. "What about you? Are you still in M&A?"

"Arbitrage, actually, now," he says. "At BlackRock."

"Ah haha, that's awesome," she says, because _of course_ he is in arbitrage. It's the douchiest of all the jobs. "Have you seen Delaney lately? I haven't kept up with the Goldman crowd at all."

"Oh, Delaney Yancy? Did you know her?" Amy smiles.

"We did. She was closer to Topher, though." She considers saying _tell her I say hi_, but wonders if that's too far.

Topher pales a little, and she smiles. Good. "I haven't, no. Not since I left Goldman. Anyways, it looks like you guys are busy," — he gestures toward their paper-strewn table — "and it's getting pretty late. So, Sloan, it was nice to see you. And, uh, Don — good to meet you. Take care of her."

Don shakes his head suddenly, like he's been overcome by a tic. "Yeah, don't worry about that, bud."

"We do both have some work to do," Sloan smiles tightly. "Good to see you."

She nudges her elbow in Don's side discreetly, and he obliges. "Nice to meet you," he sighs, and Topher steers Amy out by the elbow.

Sloan stares at the nonsensical essay until they're far away. Don waits patiently. "So we're never coming back here again," she finally says, still staring at the essay.

"Come on. We come here like twice a week, and you _love_ this macaroni," he complains, then nudges her gently with his elbow. "So. That was Topher?"

"Yup. That was Topher," she says, returning her eyes to the paper in front of her. "Which was pretty obvious from my introduction." She gathers her papers and scoots out of the booth. "I'm going home."

"One sec," he says, flipping the cover across his iPad and rifling through his wallet for a few twenties as she heads for the door. "Jesus, slow down." She doesn't want to shout, so she just purses her lips and waits. She could insist that she's going home _alone_, but he would argue with her; plus, it's sixty-odd blocks to his house and it's past midnight. That would be mean.

They're just two blocks from her apartment, though, so they walk through the silent, wet streets, her leading, him just a tense half-step behind, until they reach her place. She opens the door, letting him walk in behind her, and he says, "So, I know you're probably going to be pissed at me for making the offer, but I just want to state for the record that I —"

She doesn't let him finish, though, deciding in a split second to propel him backwards with a kiss, using his body to shut the door. She winds a hand up to latch the door. "Don't talk," she commands. "Just — let me." He stares at her for a second, but she bites her lip, so he kisses her back, hard. This is one of the things she appreciates most about Don.

He lets her take the lead, yanking off his henley, raking her nails down his chest, snapping his belt off. She pushes him onto the bed, kissing him bumpily as she pulls off his pants, and he manages to work the zipper of her jeans down and worm his fingers in, massaging her. It calms her but also turns her on, and she moans as she pulls down his boxers. He stops her for a second, kissing a line down her forehead, over the ridge of her nose, dots a kiss on her chin before going over her clavicle and down her sternum. She loses herself for a minute before yanking him back up and sliding herself onto him.

Later, after they're both done, she gets up and slides his discarded shirt on, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. She pads out to the kitchen, puts on some water to boil. She leans on the counter as the water begins to percolate, twisting her big toe into the ground.

A few minutes later, she hears Don's footsteps. "Hey," she says when he appears in his boxers. She scratches at the nape of her neck. "You want hot chocolate?"

He stares at her. "Sure," he finally says. "That'd be great." She nods quickly, as he pulls a package of Oreos down from her top shelf. He twists one, offers her the cream side.

She stares at him, and the Oreo. "I shouldn't."

"Come on. You had a sucky day," he cajoles.

She takes it, finishes it in two bites. "Ok," she says. "Why do I feel like I'm doing something wrong here? I don't think I'm in the wrong so I don't know why I should be feeling this."

He shrugs as she grabs two mugs and begins to prep their drinks. "I don't know _why_ you're feeling this. You could _tell_ me, but that's entirely your choice."

She shrugs, annoyed. "You know, when I said that you were a nice guy, I didn't mean that you were a pushover. If you have something you want to say, say it."

He sucks in a breath. "I don't know, Sloan. If you want to talk about why running into your asshole ex has put you in this mood, sure, I will listen and I will talk and I will be supportive. I have a few questions. But this? It's your thing. I'm not …," he looks down, pursing his lips. "Do I have a lot of questions? Yes. Am I worried by how this is affecting you? Yes. But yeah, I _am_ trying not to be an asshole. He treated you like _shit_, Sloan, he did, like _absolute_ shit. And you don't deserve that. You just don't. So the way I see it? The least I can do is _not _force you to talk about it. Would I … like to go and punch him, or … I don't know, run a story accusing him of fraud and malpractice —"

"He's in finance, it's all malpractice," she smirks, handing him his cocoa.

"Whatever," he says, blowing on the liquid. "My point is, if I thought it would make you feel any better without being _totally_ disrespectful and douchey, I'd do it. But I honestly can't think of what I can or should say that _wouldn't_ be a complete misogynistic dick move, and I'm _trying_ not to be that guy, so I'm going to wait until you say something."

She's struck then, by just how deeply he cares for her. And how different he is than Topher or Scott or Riley or any of the guys she's dated in the past. His hair is rumpled, his body is red with marks she left, he looks like he's a little worried he's offended her, and she can honestly say she's never felt this way about anyone, ever.

So she grabs the package of Oreos — even though she shouldn't be eating this crap so late — and picks up her mug. She tilts her head toward the bedroom. "Come on. It's cold." Once they settle back in bed — he's leaning against the pillows, she's wrapped in the extra blanket but sitting Indian style — she commands, "Ask away."

"I … Whatever you want—"

"No, ask," she says, finally explaining, "I don't know where to start so it would — help — if you ask."

"Alright," he says carefully. "Are you — are you ok?"

"Yeah," she says immediately. "Of course I am. I — it was a shock, to see him." She gnaws on her lip. "I always — you know when you go through a breakup, and you're the breakupee, and you just have these … revenge fantasies? Where you imagine saying the perfect thing and putting them _exactly_ in their place and making them feel how humiliated they made you feel? Only you can't get that in real life, you can barely get an approximation." He nods, and she continues. "So for years, I had these … imaginings, of how running into him again might go. And that was … not it."

"Ok," he says. "So what was different?"

"You know, you might want to consider a career in journalism one day," she jokes. "It would suit you."

"I'll take it under advisement," he says, and otherwise waits for her to continue. After a beat she keeps going.

"I don't know. At first I imagined I would be better dressed, for one. Probably wearing heels. And I thought … that I would tell him that he's a grade-A asshole. And that I would thank him, but in that ah-ha-ha petty way, because my life … everything … is so much better now. Job, friends, you … it's all so much better. So I would tell him what an asshole he was, then make him feel like he lost the best thing that ever came his way, and _then_ make him feel like he's really just the scum of the earth."

"Well, for what it's worth, I _do_ think he lost the best thing that came his way," he says. "And for what it's worth, I'm glad you didn't marry him."

"That's pretty selfish," she points out, because the jerk did break her heart.

"I know. But you're being honest so I thought I would ... repay you with honesty. It's a thin, thin line between what he was doing and how I sometimes behaved when I was dating Maggie—" she takes in a breath, because while she _knew_ that he had slept with other women in the haziest periods of that relationship, she wasn't expecting him to draw a connection here — "and so I recognize that it's incredibly hurtful. And I ... wanted to say that I know that. And I'm incredibly sorry he put you through that. Selfishly glad you're not married to him but also very, very sorry."

She rearranges those interlocking, analogous pieces of their current relationship and their past relationships. "It's actually a lot different than what was going on with you and Maggie, for the record," she says.

"If you say so," he says.

"It _is_ so," she says. "You two weren't engaged; you were on breaks."

"He treated you like shit. I just ... wanted that acknowledged and ... differentiated."

"Acknowledged and differentiated. I don't think the two of you are the same at all, you know that, right?" she asks, because now she's wondering.

"Okay," he says.

"It's true. I trust you," she says, "and, I know that you know when you're being hurtful, and you don't like it, and you try and change it. He doesn't try to be better, Don, and that's ... that's all the difference."

He's quiet. "Thank you," he says. "Anyways."

She smiles. "When I pictured running into him, I also thought I would warn whoever he was dating," she shrugs. "And clearly that didn't happen."

"Ok, and then what did you imagine after you imagined that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said, 'at first.' At first you thought you would do that. It implies something changed. So what did you imagine next?"

She pauses. "I don't know. And then I think I thought it would be years later, and I would, I don't know, bump into him when I was rushing out of a super-important meeting, or had just been in the news for something or … even something ordinary. Like, running to the grocery store with a kid, or something. And I could just be so fucking _magnanimous, _and tell him how genuinely I hoped things had worked out for him, though I secretly knew that I had won. And I wanted to be able to mean it, and not care. Like, to have just moved on so far that I was _that_ graceful that it could actually all be in the past."

"Alright. So I'm guessing you didn't quite feel that?"

Sheshakes her head. "No. I don't think I could feel that for another five or ten years, honestly."

"So how are you feeling now?"

She takes a sip of her tea before setting down the mug. "It … caught me off guard. I … You know I … fuck. You know I love you right?" She'd said the words once, demanded that he allow her to take it back, hadn't brought it up again. "I do. Fuck. You … That's not to put any pressure on you —"

"No, for what it's worth, I love you too," he says, cutting her off almost off-handedly.

"Oh," she says, because she's not expecting that. "Thank you."

He laughs. "I tell you I love you and you fucking say _thank you_?" he doesn't sound mad though; in fact, he looks almost … enthralled.

"Shut up," she says, nudging him with her toe. "I'm just … That's a _preface_, for what I'm about to say. I love you, I do. I love you … differently than I ever loved him. Possibly more, but it's … different, so I can't really _quantify_ it, since it's an imperfect comparison. Anyways," she sighs, as he continues to chuckle, "I wanted to … not care as much, when I saw him again. But I … still cared. And I wasn't … I wasn't able to be magnanimous, or kick-ass. I still … I still cared. More than I wanted to. A lot more than I wanted to, actually."

He's quiet for a minute, then finally says, "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry? I should be sorry."

"Why should you be sorry?"

"Because I just told you I loved you, and followed it up with, I still cared way too much about what my dirtbag ex-fiance thought about me? Just a guess, though, I could be wrong."

"I … think that's completely normal," he says. "He treated you like shit, you wanted to prove him wrong. And he caught you off-guard. I think all of those things are normal."

"I don't … I don't have any feelings for him. Or anyone else. Well, besides you."

"I know you don't," he says. "For the record, I have no other feelings for anyone else, either."

"Good," she smiles, finally relaxing enough to abandon the blanket and curl into his side. "So … we're good?"

"Of course we are. Can we go back to the diner for lobster mac at some point in the future though?"

"Absolutely," she smiles.

"One thing I didn't get, though," he says, propping himself onto his elbow. "The new girlfriend … or whatever she was … She worked at Goldman when you broke up. How did she not know the reason?"

She's quiet for a second. "It's a big company?"

"But she knew the woman he … was cheating on you with? And didn't know?" She bites her lip. "Oh, my god. Did you … Did you not say anything?" At her guilty look, he goes, "Seriously? How did you not … let people _know_ what a jackass he was?"

"It was four years ago!" she says. "I wasn't … I wasn't … super-assertive." It was true. Up until that point in her life, she had operated under the principle that if she studied more and knew more and understood more, merit would bear out. It was a security-blanket mentality, she knows now.

"So you just let him get away with it?"

"I didn't want to _tell_ anyone!" she says. "I didn't know what to say. And I had just … caught him cheating, four days before the wedding, and I was already going to get _tons_ of pity for calling everything off, and I had to make these terrible phone calls and talk to all these caterers that I just … I couldn't tell people why. These days? Yes. In a heartbeat. But … this was pre-ACN. Pre-Will. Pre-Charlie. Pre-_you_. I wasn't the best at standing up for myself. Besides, most of them were his friends anyways, so I just … quit. And didn't look back."

He looks at her then, not with pity but with compassion, and kisses her. "I'm really sorry, in a non-dickish, non-misogynistic way, that you went through all of that," he says honestly.

"I know," she says. "And you know what? I dated, I almost married, a total bad guy. _That_'_s _how I knew you weren't, ok? That's how."

The next day, when Don's in his second rundown, right after she's finished her four o'clock, she gives Topher a call. It's a mostly impulsive choice. He's surprised to hear from her, but readily accepts when she suggests coffee at Bouchon in half an hour. She walks slowly, working out what the hell she could possibly have to say to him.

She's waiting for him, systemically turning an oversized raspberry macaron in a pile of crumbs, when he walks in. She waves him over, slightly unenthusiastically. "Hi," she smiles. "Thanks for meeting me."

"No problem," he says, putting his hands in his pockets. "What's, uh, what's up?"

"Do you want to order anything?" she asks, pointing to the line, and he shakes his head. "Alright then. You can sit down, you know."

He takes a seat nervously. "I was surprised that you called."

"I was surprised to run into you at the diner yesterday," she says frankly.

"Amy — she lives around the corner," he admits.

"It's a good neighborhood, a little far from work but we like it," she smiles.

"So … you and …"

"Don. His name is Don."

"Right. You're serious?"

"We are," she says, then pushes away the half-eaten macaron. "I didn't come here to make nice. Or to threaten to tell Amy, or something, so you don't need to make that face. I'm sure you'll fuck it up on your own anyways, though I can hope you have a _smidge _more respect for her than you ever did for me."

"Hey I really am sorry, like I said when we —"

"And like I said when we broke up, I still think you were mostly sorry you got caught, though if you have changed — which I doubt — I am genuinely happy for you. I still want nothing to do with you, but given that otherwise you're just ruining more people's lives, I would be happy for you if you weren't such a jerk."

"Ok …." he says, a little lost.

"Honestly, when I first called you, I was going to tell you everything I _didn't_ tell you when I found you fucking Delaney Yancy in our bed. And then I _was_ going to find a way to tell Amy. I've gotten better at speaking up for myself, and I wanted you to know that. Then I decided, on the way here, that that sounded a little too much like a country-western song."

"I actually knew that, you know," he interrupts.

"You knew what?"

"That you had gotten better at speaking up for yourself. I do watch your show. Not all the time. Sometimes."

She sits back, a small smile on her face. "Oh yeah? What'd you think?"

"You're not bad, Sabbith."

"Most viewers and commentators think I'm actually pretty good," she says. "So why'd you didn't?"

"I … don't know."

"Well, let me hazard a guess: You didn't want to give me that one thing, years later? You didn't want to acknowledge at all that I'd found something new and am actually doing really well for myself. You were rude, last night. 'Banking,' and 'real economics,'" she snorts. "That was rude."

"I'm … sorry?"

"Don't be," she says. "I get it. Why do you think you're here now?"

"I actually still don't know," he says.

"Right," she says, finally landing on what she wants to say. "I just wanted to say … I forgive you."

"You … _forgive_ me?"

"Yes. For cheating on me. I actually, genuinely do." It's kind of news to her, too. "You were a terrible boyfriend. The worst I've ever had, actually. But … I'm really fucking happy now. And I'm really good at what I do. And just … in the last two minutes, you've made me realize _all_ of that. I'm not going to thank you, but I forgive you," she stares at him. "I've carried that for four years. And I think I needed to say that more for me than you needed to hear that, but there you go."

"I'm not … I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say."

"Of course you aren't," she smiles tightly. "Anyways. I need to get back to the studio. I hope … I hope you have a good life, Toph. A genuinely good one. Not one filled with money, or things, or vacations in crazy locations but … a good life. I do."

"You … you too, Sloan," he says, still looking stunned.

_Sloan Sabbith runs into Topher once more in her life, on a Saturday far, far in the future. She's in the grocery store, buying last-minute snacks for the soccer team because her genius husband forgot to tell her that Coach Mike had asked them to bring extra juice boxes, a week after she's won her second Peabody. She's got one daughter by the hand, the second is ten feet ahead _**_twirling _**_in the aisle, and her son is about to have a meltdown since he's going to be late for his game. Topher is standing alone, perusing Gristedes' wine selection. She checks out his left hand — there's a wedding ring there. Her oblivious twirling daughter twirls into him, and he looks up. Their eyes connect, and she smiles. "Hey, Topher," she says. "How's it going?" _


	8. Whisper to me, is this love?

Hey y'all - thanks for the continued wonderful response here. I thought we'd take it way, way back this time. I hope you enjoy. As always, would love to hear your feedback.

* * *

_December_

"So the ACN holiday party is Friday," Don says casually, like he's remarking on the weather or debating Vietnamese vs. pizza. It's a Saturday morning, and if you had asked Sloan Friday morning if she had intended to spend the following day in Don's bed — or, even more broadly, with Don — she would not have known the answer. And she probably would have been pretty indecisive. But now that she's here, and she can see the branches encased in ice outside, and Don is being a responsive, pleasurable furnace, there is nowhere else she'd rather be.

"I know, I saw the email from Charlie. And the one from Mac. And the one from Elliot," she says, adjusting herself to face him. There are multiple ACN parties during the holiday season — each show does something for its staff; Mrs. Lansing hosts a senior-staff-only sit-down black-tie dinner at her apartment, which is basically located on top of the world; and there's Charlie's fancy-dress office blowout on New Year's, which is only attended by the youngest staff, those dating co-workers, or those with nowhere else to go. But this one is the middlebrow division-wide party, the one everyone is mandated to attend and the one where everyone always ends up a little too drunk on too-cheap wine, and hungry despite eating too many crudites. It was a generally pretty miserable experience.

"Mmm, the best night of the year," she jokes, burrowing deep into his covers. It's surprising, how amazing his linens are. It's not something you would immediately associate with him, but they're _awesome_. She could stay here all day.

"It's not that bad," he defends. He's close to her but not quite touching, as if he's a little unsure what the exact boundaries are. She tangles her legs with his, just to make a point.

"Last year, Martin hit on me. Full stop. Said that he knew I probably thought he was too young, but offered to 'rock my world,'," she laughs. "He then threw up in a urinal. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember. For his sake.'

"So you're going this year?"

"Of course. It's mandatory."

"Yeah but not _really_."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Really? Tell me more."

"There's not much _more_ to tell. If you don't go, what do you think will happen?"

"Mocking and misery," she suggests.

"Right. Well there is that."

"I'm not saying it's a night at the Roxbury, but why not go? It's free booze and people you generally like."

"I'm not saying I don't want to go, I …"

Oh. Right.

The two of them have been doing _this_ for just over two weeks. She can use just one hand to count the number of times they've spent the night together. While she is very fond of him and does not plan on entangling legs with anyone else in the near future and likes this and has been having fun, they haven't told anyone from work, due to some mutual unspoken understanding. (Well, Will might have picked up on it because he's scary perceptive), and they haven't even really had a conversation about, well, anything. She supposes they _could_ just be sleeping together, but it feels more serious than that, possibly because they have known each other for so long. But it also feels painfully new and delicate — even raw.

So she does the sensible thing. She gets up. Swinging out of bed, she says, "Come on. We need food; specifically, French toast. Let's go get brunch." She's got jeans from last night and a plain white tank top from her gym bag, but the sweater she was wearing is now wrinkly, so she swipes one of his seventy-three flannel shirts. He laughs as she buttons it halfway, tucks it in front and rolls up the sleeves. It's too big to be exactly stylish, but it does the trick. And actually, she kind of likes it. Her hair gets caught up in the collar, and he pulls it out, laughing.

She pulls on her coat and boots, because even though it's probably in the mid-thirties she will still be freezing. She's not sure if they're hand-holders, or even at the stage where that's acceptable, so she walks with her hands firmly in her parka's pockets the entire time. They head around the corner from his place to Market Diner, which is only half-full since most of its clientele is the late-night post-college crowd. But they've got cheap challah French toast, for her, and eggs Benedict, for him, so they're set.

As he settles in next to her, she realizes that it's their first meal, in public, together, in this context. They've eaten way too many midnight meals, and oh-shit-it's-5-pm-where-was-lunch meals, and have gone out together and separately as friends … but they're not friends anymore. Well, they are, and they're more. And before she can stop herself, she says this observation out loud after the waitress has taken their coffee orders.

He looks startled. "No way this is our first date," he says. "It's in a diner."

"So this isn't a date?" she challenges archly.

"_No_, this is a date," he corrects quickly, clearly worried she might get offended, or think they're not there as … to-be-determined, but qualitative, thing. "I mean … Order of things a little mixed up. But. Wait. Is this a date?"

She's now confused. "How are you defining date?"

"Well, there are multiple contexts. Generally I would say the criteria is doing something of mutual interest with someone you're interested in … you know, as more-than-a-friend. But 'first date' implies awkward, implies getting-to-know-you, and I did not feel awkward until you said it was a first date and now I don't even know."

"Well, I think it meets your first criterion, and mathematically, it is the _first_ time that we have done something of mutual interest with each other after clearly indicating that we are interested in each other."

"Well, no, because the _other_ criterion for a first date is that the guy is trying to impress the girl. And I would definitely, you know, have put thought into that aspect, if this was a _first date_. So it meets neither criteria for a first date."

"It meets the chronological definition as the _first time_. Something has to be the first date. Looks like this is it, pal."

"Well, sure, if you're defining _mutual interest_ as, you know, since we started," he lowers his voice to a whisper and darts his eyes around, which makes her laugh, "_sleeping together_. But I wouldn't necessarily draw the line there."

"Well, if you start counting 'mutually interested in each other' as a few months back, that means the tequila shots and tuna jerky we had in October at Hang Chew's could count. And if you're not interested in me right now and the first date is sometime in the future, I'm kind of offended. To be honest."

"Ok, a, it's been more than 'a few months back,' so —"

"It has?" she smiles, because that is validating.

He flails about for words a bit. "I mean, there were lines. But yeah, you're _you_, Sloan, there was never exactly a time when I would say I was _uninterested_."

She's struck. "We really need to work on our communication then."

"Probably. For the record, I like you. A lot."

She leans forward and kisses him. Their first public kiss (well, depending on your definition of public, since they definitely have made out in his office way, way late at night.) "I like you a lot, too," she smiles. "Enough that I am willing to give you a bye on the this-being-the-first-date thing."

"So I get a do-over?" he grins.

"Yup. Tonight. Make it count, Keefer."

After brunch, he grabs her hand as they walk back. The laze around his apartment for a while (he watches a basketball game that he recorded, which makes absolutely no sense, as she grades), but he kicks her out around 2 and tells her to go home and get ready.

"But what should I _wear_?" she teases as they say good-bye in his doorway.

He thinks for a second. "Something you like," he finally says, before leaning forward and kissing her. "Go. I'll pick you up at seven."

It's sweet, but supremely unhelpful, advice, she thinks as she stares at her closet four hours later. She can't really tell what direction Don will take their first date in - will it be old-school and formal, some nice restaurant with a wine list both of them will pretend to understand? Or will it be more casual, like ice-skating in Central Park. Should she wear heels? He seemed intent that a first date was _impressive_.

She settles on a simple black dress that will work in most contexts. It's comfortable enough for walking, and has a peekaboo back, with a vertical slit from her waist to a single top button at the base of her neck. It's a little shorter than what she would wear to work. She decides on her favorite black slingbacks, which are good walking heels that also do amazing things for her legs, though she seriously hopes there will be no outside component to the date. It's not a _fancy_ outfit, but she really hopes that Don won't freak out create some stiff, fraught-with-expectations ordeal.

She needn't have worried. When Don knocks on her door (he insisted on coming up), he's _not_ wearing a suit (if he had, she would have made him wait while she went to change), though he did iron his clothing, and he's holding a plant. "I didn't trust you to keep flowers alive for more than five hours, but that an impressive first date would have a floral component," he says. "The guy at the florist _assures_ me that in the apocalypse, only cockroaches and this plant will survive."

"So it might last a week here, is what you're saying?"

"Exactly," he smiles.

"Well, thank you," she smiles. "So. Where are we going?"

"'inoteca," he says, holding up her coat for her.

She pauses. "Okay, not saying that that doesn't sound _amazing_, but I have been there and they don't take reservations and last time I went there with my friend Carrie we waited like, _three hours_ for a table, and I'm just saying, that I kind of turn into the Hulk when I get _really_ hungry —"

"Relax. I have seen you hungry, and will never forget it, so I would never intentionally put you in a situation where you'd have to wait three hours for food."

Her mouth is open, a little bit. "So you're taking me, on an impressive first date, to a place with a two-hour wait for a table on a Saturday night?"

"Hell no," he says, "I know a guy." With that, he tilts his head toward the door and begins to lead her out.

"You know a guy? You also know that you _actually_ used the words, 'I know a guy,' right? It kind of sounded like you're in the Mafia."

"Well, Keefer _is _actually a shortened form of Keeferano." He rolls the last word, like a bad character actor might do.

"Seriously?"

"What? No."

"Who is this guy? And how do you know him?" she teases as they step into her elevator. This time, she takes his hand.

"He's a friend of mine from college. He did like, New York stuff right after college—"

"Wall Street?"

"Real estate, I think, technically. But after about eight years he freaked out, quit, started bartending, made a lot of friends, and then started investing in restaurants and overseeing their bars and liquor. This is one of the restaurants he's involved in."

"Are there any other guys you know?"

He shrugs. "My buddy Nick is the facilities manager at Madison Square Garden. He can get you tickets to any Knicks game."

"Ooooh, what about the Taylor Swift concert?"

"I mean, I have no idea who you would go with, but sure. He could do that."

"What about the Biebz?" she teases.

"Please stop. Please." She laughs.

Sure enough, when they get to 'inoteca, he just talks to the maitre d' and she leads them to a quieter table, away from the bar and by a window. She adores the _mozzarella in carrozza_, and feels zero shame in immediately starting them off with two orders. Don actually knows more about wine than she does, and picks out a very nice cabernet. His friend, Jonah, stops by to say hi, but otherwise they're left alone. Whatever potential awkwardness she was anticipating is nonexistent. It's the two of them, eating food, wearing nice clothes, and talking. And laughing. He makes her laugh. It's a relief, to know that they can work as friends and they can work in bed (they can really work in bed), and they can work as a couple on a date on Saturday night. She offers him bites from her fork; he wipes sauce off the corner of her lip with his thumb. It's nice. Afterwards they head to an underground, speakeasy-style bar, with gin-heavy old-school cocktails and fantastic live jazz. They huddle in a corner, and sometimes make out, but mostly they just talk.

They head back to her place, which is a little weird, since they haven't really spent consecutive nights together. But as he presses her against the back of the elevator and kisses her neck, he asks, throatily, "So how was this for a first date?"

"Impressive," she murmurs back. "And you know what the best part is?" she tugs him up to look at her by the scruff at the nape of his neck. "Since it's not actually the first date, I don't feel bad at all sleeping with you."

He laughs, nuzzling his nose into her neck. "Have I mentioned I fucking _love_ how smart you are?"

The next morning, as he's doing the _New York Times_' crossword puzzle at her island in his boxers (which is bizarrely normal and weird at the same time) she finally says, "So, the party on Friday."

"What about it?"

"I … I like this," she starts, signalling between them as she sits on the second stool.

He smiles genuinely. "I like this too."

"I'm not sure what it is, but I'd like to — _actually_ figure it out. If … If you wanted to." She feels like she's back in eighth grade, trying to negotiate a relationship with Chet, her middle-school crush who sent the worst mixed messages. The conversation never got easier.

He practically chuckles in relief. "I would … like that."

"Ok," she exhales. "But I think that … takes time. And I'm not a … If I ever had a … relationship that played out in public, in the newsroom every day, the way that Will and Mac's does? I'd be mortified."

"You know they're not technically a 'relationship' right?" he asks.

"So just think how unbearable they _would_ be if they were sleeping together," she points out. "They already fight on air. _Everything_ they do is on display, the good stuff, the not-good stuff. I couldn't do that." She's not sure if she's inadvertently drawing comparisons to his relationship with Maggie so she shifts away from the topic. "I just … need some space I guess. I think _we _need some space from … all of them. I don't want it to be a _secret_, I just want it to be — I'm _happy_, I'm not, I don't know, ashamed —"

"You just want it to be low-key at work?" he asks. "Skip the kissing under the mistletoe on Friday?"

"Yes," she says emphatically, relieved to be off the linguistic roller coaster she'd accidentally jumped on. "Are you OK with that?"

"Yeah, I absolutely agree," he says.

"You do?"

"Yes," she's a little speechless, so he elaborates. "We work together. You're on my show sometimes, and in those cases I have to be your _producer_. And even outside of that, there's a pretty good chance we're gonna argue about … something. We just will. At some point. And you have career goals and honestly, so do I, that a … a _this_ … could complicate. There's those to consider. So it's … I'm not taking any of those things lightly. So I'd … like to figure those things out."

She honestly hadn't thought of the two of them in terms of her career — she suddenly realizes people could think she was sleeping her way up the ladder, or something — and she's not sure what that says about her. "I feel like I have to tell Mac though. And, actually, Will."

"We said _low-key_, not secret," he says. "I … kinda feel like it will come up with Elliot."

"I just feel like Mac would get mad, and yell otherwise," she explains. "And you should totally tell Elliot; he's your work husband."

"_Please _never use that term again," he smirks, kissing her lightly. "Anyways. I'm supposed to meet a friend for an hour of tennis in well, an hour, so … I should probably head out," he sighs. "What are you doing later tonight?"

"Dinner with my friend Erin, then I have a 5:45 makeup call for a morning shoot." He makes a face and she laughs. "Do you want to escape for lunch tomorrow?"

He kisses her, sliding his hands around her waist. "Sounds good."

She's not sure how to broach the subject with either Will or Mac, so it comes out spontaneously and fairly predictably: While she's at Hang Chew's with Mac waiting for Don to finish Elliot's show and listening to Kenzie bitch about Will and she's trying to get a word in, she finally yells, "Kenzie!"

"I'm just saying, he's the most _pigheaded_—"

"—I think I'm dating Don—"

"— man possibly who has ever — _whatthefuck_ did you just say?"

"I think I'm dating Don?"

"What do you mean?"

"I … just think I am."

"Sloan, he _knows_ you think you're dating him, right? Because it kind of sounds like he doesn't know."

"No, he knows," she smiles. "It started about … three weeks ago. We're keeping it … quiet for a bit though."

"Thank god! I knew it was going to happen!"

She tells Will at the ACN holiday party, where she and Don are there not-together but not-not-together. "You know how we've got the little sister-big brother dynamic going on?" she asks as she and Will hide in his office. The party is as predictably terrible as she expected.

"I didn't know that."

"Well, we do. You're the all-knowing gruff-but-teddy-bearish older brother, and I'm the wisecracking, precociously intelligent younger sister. And you know in the old movies, the big brother always kicks the ass of the little sister's boyfriend?"

"Is this about you dating Don?"

"What?"

"Is this about you dating Don?"

"Yes, but how did you know that?" Kenzie had been sworn to secrecy.

"Because I have _eyes_, Sloan," he says. "Would you like me to kick Don's ass?"

"No, I would actually like you to _not_ kick his ass."

"Good. I didn't want to kick his ass either."

"He's a good guy."

"I know, Sloan," he studies her. "Are you happy?"

"I … Yeah," she smiles. "Yeah."

"Good," he says, nodding to the party. Kenzie is gesticulating, clearly trying to find them. "We should get back out there. MacKenzie is going to go all … Mac very shortly."

"Sounds good," she says.

"I will kick his ass, you know. If you need me to."

"I think I can handle it, but thanks, bro."

She feels strangely light as she grabs a beer and sidles up to Don, who was talking to Tess, who peels off fairly quickly. "So I talked to Will," she says casually. "He offered to kick your ass for me."

He laughs and steps toward her, then steps back. She raises an eyebrow. "I really wanted to kiss you just then."

"Ten more minutes and let's get out of here?"

"So sold," he breathes.

They spend four of the next seven nights together and the others texting and talking. On Friday he takes her out on their second real date, this time to dinner and a play she'd mentioned wanting to see three weeks earlier. He surprises her next by taking her to a hotel afterwards, since it's Christmas, and all. They exchange gifts that night by the room's fireplace, since she has a flight to San Francisco the next morning and he's driving down to his mom's in Philadelphia. She'd gotten him a camera, had asked the tech guys for advice on brands. He's enthralled by it, immediately starts snapping photos of her as she unwraps her gift, a simple, chic gold bar necklace. She examines the photo in the viewfinder a second later — she's surprised by how happy she looks, and kisses him deeply.

She's got a 8 a.m. flight out of LaGuardia the next morning, and has packed exactly nothing, since she assumed they were going back to her place. The alarm goes off at 5 a.m. and she groans, throwing her hand over her eyes. Don starts to shuffle awake and she presses him back. "You should get sleep. I'll see you on Wednesday when I'm back, alright?"

"Nope, I'm coming with you to your apartment. _Then _I'm coming back and sleeping," he says, strangely coherent despite having slept for four hours.

She drifts off twice in the cab, and Don has to keep prodding her to stay awake as she throws clothes into her suitcase. Finally, though, it's 6:30 and she _has_ to get in the cab or she'll miss her flight. He walks her down the street, hails the cab, keeps her upright as they wait. "I love you," she says gratefully as he begins to shuffle her into the car.

Her words jolt her awake though. "Wait," she says. "I take that back."

"You take it back?" he says, amused but with slightly terrified eyes.

"Yes. It slipped out. I am tired, and you are warm, and wonderful, and thank you, and it slipped out. So I take it back."

"They're words. You can't unsay them," she can't tell if he's more amused than terrified, but at least he's not angry.

"I gave you the first date thing," she points out. "Please?"

He smiles. "Fine. Have a safe flight. Text me when you take off, alright?"

She kisses him as the cabbie honks. "Drive safely. I'll see you Wednesday, alright?"

She's still stunned by what she said as the taxi trundles toward the airport and she watches his shape get smaller in the rearview. It's early in the morning, and she's beyond massively tired, but as she touches the necklace, she wonders if there was more truth than not to her words.


	9. Yes I find the strength to try

Hey all! Happy October :) This one came fairly quickly, though it was supposed to be a Sloan piece initially but ended up needing to be a Don piece because of one of the conversations. But the next meet-the-family oneshot will be from her POV, I promise. I think a lot of Don's explanations might be a little evolved (they're what I'm sure he's thinking, I'm just doubtful if he could articulate them), but let me know. They're definitely ahead of the show, due to the simple fact that they're dating.

As a note, I've finally decided to formalize these - I plan on having twenty-four, so we're a third of the way through (I need to pick up the updating pace, I know. Reviews help me write faster). But the rest are also sort-of planned out, and I'm pretty excited.

Nothing belongs to me, except for the little Woody Allen in-joke. Props to those who figure it out :)

* * *

_February _

"Oh, come _on_," Don yells at the TV. "That was a disgrace!"

"This game aired three nights ago _and_ you know how it ends; why is this so painful to watch?" Sloan asks from the end of the sofa, where she's tucked up into a ball editing someone's economics journal article.

"Because it's like being stabbed in the heart over and over again."

"That sounds pretty close to the definition of insanity."

"Being a sports fan is an exercise in futility."

"Not if you root for the Giants," she sing-songs. Which is not exactly true, and he's about to point that out, when her phone beeps. "Hey Mom," she says, picking it up and jumping up to move into the kitchen. He turns the volume down anyways. "No we're just watching a basketball game that the Sixers lost three days ago. … Yeah, I don't know either." Her voice drifts off as she goes deeper into the apartment, and he turns the volume back up. "Wait, that's this week?" she says, coming back into the living room and handing him a beer, then setting a cold soda in front of her crap. He turns the volume down again. "No, I guess I forgot," she turns and heads for the other room, and he flips the volume back up and cringes. God damn Philadelphia loyalty. "No work's going well, it's busy but it's going really well. I need to talk to dad about projections for fiscal drag." And she's back in. He lowers the volume. But nope. At least she's speaking English — half the time she and her family go on and on in Japanese. She just picks up her crap, mouths 'sorry' and moves toward the other room. Alright then. "Great. Love you too. We'll see you on Thursday, alright? Tell Dad I love him. Alright? Bye," she throws the phone down. "So my parents are in town this weekend."

His eyes widen. "Your dad's UN testimony?"

"Yes. Wait. How did you know that?"

"Your mom mentioned it when we went out to dinner last month. How did you _not_ know that?"

"I did know that; I just, I forgot that I knew that."

"And you mock me for forgetting when Elliot's out."

"That's your _job_, this is personal."

"Sloan."

"Right. Well, they're flying in on Wednesday night and visiting friends on Thursday. They want to come to the studio that night too, since my dad has never been and my mom liked watching the show. Then Friday Dad is testifying, and Mom has some meetings, and they're going out to dinner with a few friends since they know I have work. But Saturday … they want to do dinner," she worries her bottom lip.

"With both of us?"

"Yes. If you're up to it. But I figured, since you met my mom … My mom thinks you're funny."

"Why do I feel like I'm being set up for failure?"

"Come on. You got _along_ with my mother! She liked you!"

"Yeah, but Sloan, this is your _dad_."

"So?" she asks, utterly confused.

So? It's Sloan's dad. While Sloan and her mom are close — they seem to talk on the phone at least once every few days, and he's even spent a good three minutes on the phone with Nami — her dad is her idol. They speak on the phone rarely, but when they do it's for hours, and all in Japanese. He knows they Skype each other from her office late at night, when she's waiting for _Right Now_ to wrap up. They email each other economics articles, and she has him review her lesson slides. He texts her photos of ties he's thinking of wearing to trustees' meetings or speaking engagements. Minus the three thousand miles between them, they're basically inseparable.

And, you know, he's a _dad_. Don still only views children as a very hypothetical thing far in the future, but he still thinks he gets the dad thing. He would punch someone sleeping with his daughter. He's also had this conversation with Charlie, and with Will, and those were terrifying. So he can't imagine what the _actual_ dad will be like.

"So … It's a big deal," he explains lamely.

"Believe me, my mom is _much_ scarier than my dad," she says, flopping down next to him. "There is one more thing, though. And you don't have to do it. You can say no, and I'll tell my mom that I didn't even ask, that I didn't want to ask. For the record. You are under no obligation and for the record, I think it's inappropriate —"

"Sloan. Breathe. What … what are you asking me?"

She looks genuinely hesitant to say what she's about to say. "There's this art exhibition-reception thing at the New York Library that he got tickets for, for 5 on Saturday, for him and my mom. But Mom thought that you might want to go with him, but you know? I think it's a terrible idea. Now that I'm saying it out loud. I'm going to call her, and I'm going to tell her that it's a bad idea, and I'm going to tell her that she's presumptuous, and that she's _meddlesome_ —" she's really getting riled up.

"I'll go," he says, semi-surprising himself.

"You'll what?" she says.

He shrugs, feigning casual. He can do casual. "I'll go."

"No. You won't."

"What?"

"We've only been dating for three months. My mother is tiger-momming here. I'm putting my foot down."

"I just say I'll go and meet your dad, and you _take it back_?"  
"It's my dad. He's terrifying."

"You said he wasn't!"

"You're right, he's not; I lied."

"So I can go to this thing with him?"

"Do you want to go with him? You'll have to wear a jacket. On a Saturday!"

"OK, I was freaked out but in a good way about this, and now I'm getting freaked out in a bad way about this."

"OK."

"Do you want me to meet your dad?"

"Yes. No. Yes. I do. I just … don't."

"Don't what?" Because she is confusing.

"I don't want it to be a thing-thing."

"As opposed to a thing."

"OK, this is where your 50 additional IQ points leave me a little lost. Help?"

"I want you to go, and meet him, and have fun, or as much fun as you can have at a weird jazz concert-art exhibition in a _library_, and not get worked up about it."

"At this point, I don't think _I'm_ the one getting worked up about it."

She tilts her head, as if to say _not helpful_. "I'm just saying, I want you to go, I _do_ think you'll like him because he's great, and just, you know. Get to know him. But … I don't want this to be a 'thing.'"

"OK."

"OK?"

"I said OK like five minutes ago."

She bites her lip. "OK. I'll let my mom know."

"They're not … staying … at your place right? We don't need to …"

"Leave room for the Holy Ghost? No. They're staying at the Mandarin, they always stay at the Mandarin." Of course.

On Tuesday, after their second rundown, he follows Elliot into his office. "Hi, Don, what can I do for you?" Elliot sighs. "It's a little creepy, you know, when you follow me like that. You don't acknowledge you're doing it, don't mention …"

"I need advice, and I need to know that this request falls under the … producer-talent cone of silence. Journalistic privilege."

"Well, that depends on what you're about to tell me."

"Sloan's parents are coming into town. Her father, who, no big deal, won a Nobel Prize for some research he did in his spare time, wants me to go to a jazz concert-art exhibition thing…."

"You two have been dating for … two months? And you're meeting her dad?"

"Well more like … _three _months, which is a lot longer than _two _months. But, yeah. He has some tickets to this thing, and her mom wants us to go to that, and then we'll all go out to dinner together."

"And you said yes?"

"Yup."

"Are you nuts?"

"No?"

"Dude."

"So my question is, as I have never, you know, _met_ the father of anyone that I've dated — what do I do?"

"You've made it to thirty-four without meeting the fathers of anyone you've dated and you decide the first one to meet should be the Nobel Prize-winning dean of Stanford's business school?"

"Is there a book to read?"

"You didn't meet Maggie's?"

"I said hi to them, once. Met two of her cousins. Once I accidentally picked up her phone and it was her mom. We talked."

"You two dated for almost two years, you never actually met her parents, and three months in and you're going to a jazz concert-photo what-the-fuck with Sloan's dad?"

"Are we going to help me or are we going to mock me?"

"Oh, we are going to _mock_."

Elliot's advice is, unsurprisingly, exceptionally unhelpful, so he decides to just wing it. He knows when they arrive on Wednesday — they text Sloan _immediately_ — and spends all day Thursday jittery. It doesn't help that it's actually kind of an insane news day, the type that keeps him moving and shouting, with Syria and Somalia exploding and everyone on _News Night _losing their heads since Mac has the flu. Theoretically, Jim _should_ be the one to lead her show, since he's her senior producer and all, but since the whole team is still mad at him for the defection, Don's taking over. He knows Sloan is meeting her parents for an early dinner before bringing them back, but he's so swamped that as he's rushing back from the edit bay to her office to say hello, he runs smack into them on their way to the control room.

"Don!" Sloan says, surprised. "Edit bay?"

"Yeah, a package for 10 fell apart," he says, shaking his head. "Hi. I'm sorry, Nami, it's so good to see you again."

"Hi, Don," Nami says, with a smile he still doesn't trust yet. "You look well. It's good to see you again. This is my husband, Thomas Sabbith."

"Call me Tom," he smiles. He's as tall as Nami is short, with an angular, WASPy build and a shock of grayish hair. He looks _distinguished_, which is unsurprising, but also a bit nerdy. He's wearing a navy suit, and Nami has on a pantsuit and a silk blouse that he suspects costs as much as his mortgage. He suddenly regrets his choice of shirt.

"Don Keefer," he says, holding out a hand that, thankfully, isn't shaking. "It's great to meet you. Sloan's told me some wonderful things about you."

"I've heard some, interesting, shall we say, stories about you as well," Tom says, his eyes sparkling.

"Dad," Sloan says, in a patient, warning tone.

"Right. So you're one of the producers, around here?"

"That's right — our 10 p.m. show, with Elliot Hirsch," he smiles.

"Those are some pretty late nights, not getting off until midnight."

"I get to start a little later and, outside of meetings, my days are pretty flexible," Don says. "It works out."

"It's the same as you starting your day at seven and then bringing stuff home at six, Dad," Sloan says. "Besides, it's not like I stop working at five p.m. either."

"Relax, Sloan, I'm just making _conversation_," Tom smiles. "Now, I'm assuming that means that right now you're pretty busy, and Sloan, don't you have to go to the people who do your face? We should get out of the way."

"I do need to go to makeup," Sloan laughs.

"And I do need to go — our 8 o'clock producer is out sick, so I'm covering for her today as well."

"Oh, we'll be in the control room together then," Nami smiles.

_Fucking A. _

"Yeah. It's always a great show."

"Mom, Dad, I'll take you to the control room now, but then I do need to get going," Sloan says.

Twenty minutes later, as his show is cobbled together and it's time for _News Night_, he heads into the control room. "Hey," he smiles, "I want to apologize in advance — with the two shows tonight it might get a little hectic in here. It's not … It's not how we — I planned it."

"Oh, no," Nami smiles. "We're just here to watch." She's so _pleasant_, and Don is again unnerved that she seems so nice when Sloan swears she's a tiger mother. "It's certainly exciting, to watch everyone be so _productive_."

"Right. Well, if you need anything — water, soda, anything — Tess is going to be your best bet. Tess —" he calls.

"Got it. You've got Elspeth on the line in Damascus, there's something wrong with the camera," she holds up the control room phone.

"Sorry, hand her over."

_News Night_ itself actually goes fairly smoothly, thank God, because it would have been supremely embarrassing for it to go poorly. He makes a few quick saves — a dropped phone-in correspondent, a bad factcheck, an interviewee who brings out the worst in Will. But Sloan's segment goes well, thank God, and she's in the control room by 8:30 to distract her parents and generally keep them company.

"Do you guys want to stay back here? We can watch from my office," she asks.

"Oh no, I'm quite enjoying it from here," Nami says. "Don paces considerably less than I expected."

"No, his usual style of getting out nerves is talking and occasional yelling," Sloan says. It's true — producing amps him up.

"I can hear you," he says, thumb over the microphone. "Though that is true."

"He said that he paced, last time," Nami points out.

"He paces when the anchor isn't listening," Sloan says.

"How do you know that? The person least inclined to listen to me on air is you."

"If I'm going to listen to half of a flirty conversation, take me out of your fucking ear. I can manage on my own," Will says snippily, and he flips the switch for the next twenty seconds.

"That one doesn't listen much either," Sloan points to the monitor. "Though I am probably worse. I'm getting better, though."

"Who's in charge, the anchor or the executive producer?" Tom asks.

"The EP," he says as Sloan says, "the anchor." He stares at her, and she says, "Well, the EP, during the show, _technically_."

He flips his mic back on. "You're back in 10," he says to Will, "Joey, load the graphics for the D Block."

After the show, Tom says, "Well, that was fascinating."

"Why don't I take you to meet Will, then you guys can cab back to your hotel?" Sloan suggests.

"And I _have_ to run to get stuff turned around for 10, but it was great to meet you," Don says, feeling incredibly guilty. But producing _two_ shows in a night while being watched by your girlfriend's parents is not exactly a serene endeavor. "I'll see you both later."

"Great to meet you, Don," Tom says, shaking his hand.

"See you on Saturday," he smiles, "Nami. Good to see you as well."

"Wonderful to see you, Don. It was certainly enlightening to see you produce."

"I'm not sure what that means, but thank you," he admits with a smile, and she opens her arms for a hug. Sloan looks surprised but he accepts it.

After Elliot's show, he's scared shitless by Sloan waiting in his darkened office. "You _have _to stop doing this," he complains. "I'm beginning to think you like freaking me out."

"Your squeal is pretty endearing," she says, standing up. "You ready to head out?"

"Yeah. I figured you left already?"

"Nope. Put 'em in a cab. My mom _really_ likes you." She stands, stretching. She's in yoga pants and a thin henley and he wants to be home _now._

"Yeah. Should I be concerned?"

"I have no idea," she shrugs. "I'm trying not to think about it."

"I could just have won her over with my considerable charms. Back in the day, I had a reputation with the ladies."

"Yeah. No, Romeo," she kisses him lightly. "You ready for the exhibition?"

"Hell no," he laughs, grabbing his bag so they can head out.

But even so, on Saturday, wearing a suit jacket and nice pants and feeling like he desperately needs a shot, he heads to the public library.

"Don!" Tom calls, on the steps. "This way."

"Tom," he smiles. "Good to see you again. Thanks for inviting me."

"Are you a Man Ray fan?"

"I liked him in _Midnight in Paris_," he says. "But not familiar with the man himself, no."

Tom chucks. "Good pun. Not my favorite Woody Allen movie, but certainly better than _Purple Rose of Cairo_. I never liked that one."

"_Match Point_ was pretty good."

"I always liked the actress who played the wife in that film," Tom agrees, as they head in. "So, how did you get into journalism?"

He laughs. "A bit of a long story. I was a business and poli-sci major, followed a girl to the newspaper offices, started writing a column about concerts while I was at NYU, ended up minoring in journalism."

"And you dropped the interest in business?"

He shrugs. "Decided to play to my strengths. I got a minor in it, in the end, and it's pretty useful, given where the media is."

"Ah," Tom says appraisingly, as they walk toward the bar. "Drink?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Don, my daughter has decided that after three months of dating, she likes you enough to send you to a jazz and art exhibition with me. I want to find out why. Have a drink. You'll need it."

"Gin and tonic," he tells the bartender.

"Good man," Tom says. "So you followed a girl into the newspaper offices. How did you end up at ACN?"

"Well the interest in journalism far outlasted the girl. I ended up doing a few internships, a fellowship, got a Master's at Columbia's J-school. Led to a job at _Newsweek_ covering politics in DC for a few years, did the 2004 campaign and met a producer at ACN. He hired me on in DC and I came up to New York in 2006. I was a reporter for a few more months before becoming a producer."

"Ever wanted to be on air?"

"God, no. Wouldn't want to break the camera. I leave that to Sloan and Elliot and Will."

"So when did you meet Sloan?"

"A little after she started at ACN," he says, taking a quick sip of his drink.

"That was three years ago."

"Yup, in November. We got her a cake."

"And so you were friendly but distant colleagues that whole time?"

"No, we were friends," he says truthfully before flagging down the waiter. He'll need another. "Good work friends. Off and on." He decides that honesty is the only way he can possibly be impressive here and get this guy to like him.

"Off and on?"

"I … was dating someone off-and-on for a lot of that time and, in retrospect, it was not a great relationship. And Sloan has no tolerance for idiocy, so she kind of … made herself scarce during that relationship, and I was pretty preoccupied at work, since it was not going well at the time. But she was still a good friend. I trusted her. I … still trust her. I trust her more, now, obviously, but I've always trusted her."

"And you never thought about dating her then?"

"We were friends. It was an important friendship, to me. And …" he hesitates.

"And?"

"And, I … I saw the guys she dated. And I didn't like any of them, frankly. Not in a jealous way, just in an I-think-you-can-do-better way."

"So you're saying you're better?"

"_No_. I'm in fact trying to get to the opposite point. Look, I'm crazy about your daughter. I think she's brilliant, and she's funny, and she's the first person I want to tell about good news, or bad news, or what I had for dinner," he explains earnestly. "But a lot of the guys that I met, or I heard about, were just not great guys. I didn't really think she had great taste in men, to be honest. Topher? I've wanted to punch him for four years. And when we started working through us …. My thought was, if she likes _me_, and she liked _also_ liked all of these guys, who treated her like crap and weren't good enough for her, well, why was I any different?"

"You know, I was really liking you — my wife likes you, my daughter _really_ likes you, you seemed to be on your game at work, you only have one tattoo that I've seen and you like the right Woody Allen movies. But now I'm actually confused as to why you're here."

"Sorry," he smiles. "Anyways, what I'm saying, is that it made me take a good hard look at who I was, what I was doing, how I was treating people. And I wasn't a whole lot different from those guys, but I wanted to be. And I thought that made a difference. So I started …. trying to do a little better. And, quite frankly, Sloan told me I was full of shit and didn't get to make decisions for her."

"So are you good enough for my daughter?"

"No. But I know that. And I want to be, and I'm trying to be," he shrugs, "I know that I'm lucky to be with her."

Tom does seem to respect that. "When you say that you weren't good enough, what do you mean?"

"I'm … caustic, sometimes. And impatient. I'm pretty career-focused, and that has usually kept things from getting serious with anyone I've dated. You're actually the first dad I've met. And the last relationship … like I said, it didn't go too well. A lot of it was just bad timing and us not being a great match, but I was …. sometimes not the nicest. I think that influenced a lot of my thinking initially."

"You ever cheat?"

"No sir. Just … condescending. Which wouldn't be a problem with Sloan, since she would shut it down. Plus, she's like six times smarter than I."

"That ever bother you?"

"No, why would it? It's one of the things I like most about her."

"You just gave me twenty-six reasons to hate you, you know."

"Yeah, I really did."

"And you still want me to like the fact that you're dating my daughter."

"I mean, it certainly would make things easier, but I plan on dating her for as long as _she_ wants to date me."

"Would you ever cheat on her?"

"God. No. Absolutely not." And he means it.

Tom shakes his head. "Between all my girls I've done the meet-the-boyfriend thing seven times — not counting any high-school dates — and I suspect I have a few more before I'm done with the youngest two. But I don't think I'll ever get one as … interesting as this one."

He squints. "I'm leaning toward taking that as a good thing, but feel free to correct me. I can be wrong about these things."

Tom laughs, then scrutinizes him back. "We'll call it a good thing. For now."

"You know, Sloan swore that her mom was going to be the tough critic, not you."

"On matters of broken curfews, I definitely would call myself the more reasonable parent. And when making economic forecasts at dinner, I was definitely the more engaged parent there, as well. Those were probably Sloan's initial criteria."

"Well, you definitely set the bar here."

"Oh, just wait until you ever see my wife disappointed. Now, what do you think is happening in this picture?"

Two hours and three gin and tonics later, they pile into a cab and head to the restaurant Sloan's reserved. Sloan and her mother are waiting, and Sloan looks a bit anxious but mostly curious. "How did it go," she whispers as he kisses her cheek. He pulls away, raises one eyebrow, and shrugs. Because he does not know.

But dinner goes nicely, and as they're saying their goodbyes — her parents have a 10 a.m. flight, so this is it — Tom says, "Looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe you two should come out to the Bay Area?"

"It'll be tough this year, with the election," Sloan says.

"Well, maybe next year then," Tom smiles. "Don. Good to meet you." He holds out his hand.

"Nice to meet you too, sir," he says, shaking it. Well then.

As they're in the car back to her place, Sloan stares at him. "So he seems to like you."

He shrugs. "I hope so."

"No. He does. When you were in the bathroom, he said … that you were honest to the point of stupid. And he wasn't sure how well that would work for your career, in the long run, but he appreciated it."

"My career will be _fine_," he says indignantly, purposefully missing the point.

"Eh. I took over management of my college fund when I was in fourth grade. I think we'll be OK. What did you say to him?"

"I told him the truth."

"That … what, the sex is good?"

"Sloan! I have _some_ sense of self-preservation."

"Then what did you tell him?"

He levels with her. "I told him that I didn't think I was good enough for you, but I knew that, and I wasn't going to stop trying."

She kisses him, deeply. "You know, for a journalist you really aren't that great with words. And then sometimes, you really are." She kisses him again.

He kisses her back. "I really mean it, you know."

She looks at him. "You're selling yourself short."

"I think I'm selling myself at exactly the right price."

"You know, he also said that you were 'surprisingly modest,' which didn't really make sense, but now it's beginning to," she ran a thumb down his cheek. "I want to be here. I don't plan on being elsewhere. And I'm really happy that my dad liked you. Did you like him?"

"Well, of all the Nobel Prizewinners I've met? He definitely ranks near the top." She laughs, then pushes his shoulder. "No. I liked him. Your parents … You make more sense, after meeting the two of them."

"Isn't that what's supposed to happen?" she says. "Isn't that the point?"

He gets a picture in his head suddenly, then, of a little kid, with his curls and Sloan's eyes, reciting _The Wealth of Nations_ while wearing untied Converse. Suddenly, the idea of kids isn't so hypothetical anymore. "You're probably right," he smiles.


	10. If it's a friend you need

So, I'll be up front: I'm not totally crazy about this chapter. It's an alt-lens look at "Election Night parts 1 and 2" which was my least favorite episode of the Newsroom, for a lot of reasons, for a lot of plot and some character reasons. One was the ridiculousness of the Jerry-suing-Don lawsuit, because it was unrealistic for a whole host of reasons. Another was the way Genoa got wrapped up and magically disappeared (presumably). But I also felt that if I was going to even be semi-faithful to season 2's second half, I needed to address it at some point. So I wrote this, and it begs, borrows, and steals a lot from that episode - I took what happened and layered the Hearts are Strong timeline over it. So a lot of the dialogue and situations are going to be familiar, and not mine.

What I didn't reuse, though, was the control-room kiss. Because that, quite honestly, was pretty perfect. :)

* * *

_November_

If you had asked Don Keefer in November 2011 what the best day of the year 2012 would be, he would have immediately said election night. Election nights are where boys become men, when legends were born, when you showed up to make it count. Your entire year, as a journalist, as a producer, boiled down to this — eight or ten hours straight, on the air; so many moving parts it would make you dizzy; an outcome you can plan for but not actually predict at all. He fucking _thrived_ on it. Lived for it. The closest word to describe the emotions of an election night was _triumphant_. Or maybe _transcendent. _In 2011, he would have predicted it being the best night of his year.

And then, of course, he'd decided sometime around April that he was going to convince Sloan Sabbith to marry him by the end of the year, so election night was promptly demoted to a distant second. Which still would have been awesome — after all, he'd get to _share_ the election night with her. Double the fun. He'd be in Sloan's ear all night, working with Mac and Elliot and Will and everyone else, for Charlie, and it would be awesome (plus, marathon coverage amped both of them up, and he was confident that the sex would be _phenomenal_ that night).

But it could not come at a worse time, quite frankly. Shortly after they sold his apartment, put an offer down on the fucking most _perfect_ condo on Riverside, and had put her place on the market, Sandy had displaced them (her Financial District apartment was fine but the building was not and had no power. Obviously it would delay any fucking sale). They're still on track to buy the new place because Sloan is a stock-market genius, but between living in Charlie's backup Midtown studio and Genoa — that clusterfuck to end all clusters and all fucks — Don has had a few better elections, the promise of hot-married-sex notwithstanding.

And Genoa. Seriously. If he hadn't had Sloan to focus on over the last twelve months, he would guess he'd be a hell of a lot more livid about Jerry Fucking Dantana (as he now refers to the bastard, about whom he can and has said many things, even though he deserves exactly zero of any of their time or attention). As it is, he's just plain furious (and a little sad).

But he's got to temper that with the recognition that it's making Sloan absolutely come fucking apart at the seams with guilt and worry. She feels she (and she alone) should have caught his lies. And now it's spun so completely out of her control that it's driving her insane (It's driving him insane, too, but he tends to redirect or get jackassy whereas she tends to obsess, and as a producer he recognizes that that's distracting for an anchor. Plus, despite the stress, it _is _a fucking election night, which is six hours. of. live. coverage. Which is inherently amazing, mess swirling around them or no). She's worried that ACN won't recover, that Charlie and Will and Mac will get sued and fired. And because of that, they'll probably both be out of jobs soon.

Because they all talked — him and her and Jim and Neal and Maggie and the rest of the _News Night _crew — and they all agreed. They would go too. It only makes sense — they vetted and researched and ran a bad story, and this is a consequence they should bear too. But it also means they've gotta figure out a way to pay their shiny new mortgage when their savings run out, and that's his job. Sloan might be the money genius, but crisis management — that's his thing.

"Hey," Sloan says as he enters the makeup room. She's waiting patiently for Bethany as Elliot gets all dolled up.

"Hey," he says, "Looking pretty, Elliot."

"Fuck you," Elliot throws back lightly.

"Are you set?" he asks Sloan, leaning on the makeup counter in front of her chair.

"Of course I'm set," Sloan says, her voice quicker than usual as she scrolls data on her iPad. He knows that she's a fucking pro, but she's also stressed and this is her first presidential election. It's a big night, so he's checking, for personal _and_ professional reasons. Her eyes flick up, just for a moment, and then quickly back down. That's not a good sign.

"Just asking. Water? Coffee? Gummi bears?"

"All of those are at the desk. Sex would be great but my hair's already done and Bethany would get mad," she says archly, to distract him from how nervous she is. He knows she's just pushing back since he's openly concerned, so he decides to play along, disarm her with a wolfish grin.

"Gross, you guys," Elliot says.

Honeymoon phase," he replies.

"You have three minutes if you want to kiss her. I'm serious," Bethany says, and he knows that she is. Bethany has cornered him over messing up Sloan's lipstick before. He leans forward, kisses her lightly. She grabs his elbow to keep him there a second longer.

"You're gonna be great," he says.

"I know," she says back, looking him in the eyes confidently to reassure him before casting them toward the door. "Is there anything new out there? Anything about Will and Mac and Charlie?"

He shakes his head. "Mrs. Lansing still won't accept their resignations." His eyes cast over to the door as Taylor Howard walks in. He doesn't know her, at all, yet, but Mac and Sloan seem to like her, so she's safe. "We still all in agreement?"

"Yup," Elliot frowns.

"Yeah," Sloan says, her eyes dark and anxious again. "Is everyone else still in agreement? They're younger. I'd get it if they weren't."

"Nah, they're solid," he says. "If anything Jim's the most adamant." _They _were all worried about him, Sloan, and Elliot, the ones with mortgages and families. But everyone's ready to stick to the plan.

"He blames himself," Sloan points out.

"So do you," he says, "even though neither of you should."

"Well, we were the _red_ team—" she cuts in.

"And we did our jobs, and shit blew up because of Jerry _Fucking _Dantana, Sloan. He doctored the tape. So we'll going to deal with the consequences but for god's sake, babe, _please _do not take any more of the blame than you should." He winces at the _babe_. Neither of them like pet names, especially in public. But this is an argument that's getting tired. Fuck, it was tired a month ago.

"I'm only —"

"No. You're not," he says bluntly. He knows that besides a feeling of guilt, worry for Mac and for Will and a fear of letting Charlie down is also there, but she's not going to talk about that right now. Those are even farther out of her realm of control and she's not going to own them now.

"For the record, I completely _will_ share some of that blame with you," she shoots back, snarky hints of levity in her voice. He sighs, because he knows she's mostly worried he opened himself and Elliot up when he shut down the interview, and she does think the red team should have figured it out. "But only part."

"Yeah, yeah, in sickness and in health, Sabbith," he says wryly. "But it'll be fine. If Mrs. Lansing's not accepting their resignations now she's not going to. We'll fight this, together, because _he _is to fucking blame. Alright?"

"Got it," she says, as Bethany starts on her face. Mac texts him, and he says, "I gotta go. Bethany, can I have a cheek?"

She steps back. "Right side," she orders, and he kisses her lightly.

"You'll knock 'em dead," he says, just to her, before straightening. "Come on, guys. It's election night. Fucking election night!" he pumps his hand above his head, and Sloan gives him a quick, pursed-lip, oh-honey-no head shake. "You got this," he says, as he begins to thumb a response to Mac. He gets another text, from Charlie. _When you have a chance, Rebecca Halliday needs to see you_.

_Why_? he texts back.

_No idea. Finish your work first. It's a busy night here. _

Fuck. Rebecca's actually not too bad, especially for a lawyer, but this doesn't sound like a good sign. And it's not like he's not exceptionally busy tonight or anything. He'll deal with this later.

So he finds Mac, deals with the Decision Desk crap, hides in his office, talks to Maggie about the California bullshit, gives John a deadline that he's going to stick to, powwows with more people, gets ready to go. He's busy.

He forgets about Charlie's text.

He forgets about it, that is, until he walks into his office and sees Rebecca.

"I was just leaving you a note that said I need a minute," she says primly, in that way out-of-place-expensive purple dress. Sloan would be able to tell him how much it's worth, and he would not believe her.

"Am I being sued again?" he jokes, because really. Things could not be worse.

Rebecca gives it to him bluntly. He appreciates that about her. "Yeah. You're going to be named defendant in a separate suit to be filed tomorrow by Jerry Dantana. He's seeking an additional 20 million dollars for tortious interference."

Those are not words that are familiar to him. He waits for an explanation, but there's none forthcoming. "What's happening?" Because it's election night and Sloan is losing her shit on air and _holy fucking hell,_ 20 million would be a lot of money and that's the apartment and college tuition and he kind of can't breathe.

So Rebecca walks him through that. Honestly, he can barely remember this phone call — it was right around the time of the wedding. Yes, he called him a sociopath. Of course he called him a sociopath, _because he fucking is_. No, he did not actually receive any medical training at the Columbia School of Journalism. Finally, he says, "How much is this going to cost me?" Because maybe it can _go away_.

"Twenty million if we lose, a couple hundred thousand if we win."

"We don't have a couple hundred thousand," he protests. Because it's true. They have some savings but …

"Do you own your apartment or rent?"

Oh to the fuck to the no. "We're closing on a new place on _Friday_," he says.

She looks at him with a bit of pity, then shrugs. "Second mortgage. Problem solved."

"You are a race of godless, soulless extortionists," he accuses without rancor.

Her expression shifts to compassion. "You need to talk to your wife."

He slumps back in his chair. Crisis management, his ass, he thinks.

He takes another minute to lay one of his Polish grandmother's curses on Jerry-Fucking-Dantana. Bastard needs to fucking rot.

But then — even though he's got, oh, about a _million_ things to do, he starts googling. _Fighting tortious interference. Countersuing. Chances of winning tortious interference. What is a tort? _He learns fascinating things about pudding and shower caps.

"What are you doing?" Sloan's terse, irritated voice cuts through the room. "We're kind of in the middle of something here. It's called an election; heard of one?"

He looks up fuzzily. "I thought we threw to D.C.?"

"We're coming back in eight, and Will wants to talk to everyone."

"He does?"

"That's what he said. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just … figuring something out," he says, clicking out of the Lexis Nexis article on intentional infliction of emotional distress. It definitely sounded promising.

"What's wrong?" she says instantly "You have that face on."

"This is my face. I can't change my face. You married this face."

"Hate to burst your bubble, Violet Beauregarde, but you have a 'something's wrong' face and this is it. _Please_ tell me."

"What's this Will thing?" he says, scooting around her.

"I don't know," she says, "I mean, I'm guessing it's about Genoa. Do you think he found out? Speaking of finding out, what are you not telling me? I'm pretty sure I can invoke wifely privilege on this one."

"Let's get through whatever the fuck Will wants to put us through," he says.

"Don," she says, stopping in her tracks, using that hushed, overwhelmed voice she sometimes uses. "Don. Tell me. Is it serious?"

He sighs. "It's fine. It's about the lawsuit, it's all. Something with my testimony."

Sloan pauses, still in the middle of the hectic newsroom. She's considering him. Considering whether he's telling the truth or not, and he fidgets, slightly annoyed under her gaze. They don't normally hold hands — or anything — at work, especially in the newsroom. In fact, after they'd gotten married, Tess had confessed that she had suspected they had broken up and didn't want to tell people because they were so low-key at work. But she's frozen to the spot, so he takes her hand and gently leads her back to the studio. She accepts this. He's sometimes awed by her faith in him.

"Everybody here?" Will asks brusquely when they arrive. Sloan slides into her seat at the Decision Desk.

"Yes, let's go around the room and let's everyone _tell_ everyone something about ourselves," Mac snipes.

"Do you need to go back to the control room?" Will asks.

"Yes," she says decisively, then daintily picks up her drink and phone and exits.

"I don't know what the hell you guys are thinking of doing, but you're not doing it," Will announces, full of patriarchal bluster, when she's gone. "Last night, Charlie, Mac and I offered our resignations to Mrs. Lansing. She refused to accept them, believing that the right thing to do is to stand by us. Charlie is working hard on Reese to get him to change his mother's mind. The reason — the whole reason — we're trying to resign is to allow the rest of you to continue what we started without the burden of Genoa. Elliot would take my job, Don would take Mac's" — he rolls his eyes, "Sloan would take Elliot's and Jim would be her EP. So I don't want to hear any more rumors about the rest of you resigning. Is that clear?"

"No," Don speaks up. Sloan gives him a look — part shellshock (probably from his duck earlier), part admiration.

"It's not clear?" Will say tensely.

"No, it's clear. We're saying _no_."

"No to what?"

"If Leona accepts your resignations, we're resigning too," Jim says. He's proud of the kid. He's come a long ways. "Everyone who's involved with Genoa."

"I'm not going to accept that."

"Due respect, if Leona accepts yours you're not going to be in a position —"

"We gave you a bad story," Don interrupts, irritation at the whole damn chain of events curdling up. "It's our responsibility. There are principles of … principle here, and character, and responsibility."

"Who put all this in your head?"

"You did," he replies, almost chirpily, because it's true.

"You expect me to get choked up?" Will asks archly.

Whatever. "Meeting's over," he announces. "Two minutes back." He exchanges a quick look with Sloan before heading out. There are things to do. Chief among them, deal with Dantana.

But the night continues to spiral out of control. Will and Mac leave them high and dry, Elliot and Sloan at the desk and him in the control room, nothing but a terse, "See you in eight minutes," to keep him company. Like eight minutes will prove a fucking point to Leona Lansing. He waits a beat before diving into action, taking that moment to contemplate the ways in which his night could be worse. For instance, he could be dead. That's something. He preps Sloan with something about the damn House races, and she just mutters back, "This is getting out of hand."

"Ahh, don't worry about that now, kay?" he says, mustering joviality, and she shoots him a look through the monitor.

But she repeats, "Copy," and he breathes a little easier.

Watching them, watching his wife, watching his best friend, he realizes — he absolutely does _not_ need WIll and Mac, but his life means a little less without them there. If they go, the rest of them _should_ go too. He had always agreed with the principle of leaving: They had fucked up and deserved to share in the consequences. But now, watching Sloan and Elliot, he realizes that wherever he's go next — whether it's tomorrow or two years or twenty — it's going to mean just a little less than doing this. He doesn't need Mac or Will for professional guidance, hasn't for a long time. But he needs them for moral support, for friendship, for solidarity, for strength. Goddamn, this is _exactly_ all he wants out of life — producing, here, Sloan, by his side. He doesn't need much.

He's going to fight Dantana. And he's going to be the ever-loving shit out of him.

And at that moment he gets angry.

As soon as Mac is back, he returns to his office, ostensibly for a break, and starts googling. Texts Rebecca. She moves scary fast — or she was waiting on him — because she's in front of him in an instant. "I got your text."

Yeah. "I've decided to counter-sue Jerry," he announces, and he feels _hot_.

"Of course."

"I'm fighting back."

"What are you suing him for?"

Isn't it obvious? "To fight back."

"I meant exactly what are you—"

He's set. "You ready?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I said you ready?"

"Give it to me."

"Intentional infliction of emotional distress." He's proud of this one.

"How do you even know?"

"I Googled it."

"There are four elements. One: He acted intentionally —"

That one's a no brainer, and he's prepped. "By doctoring the tape." Done. Shouldn't it begin and end there, anyways?

"— Two: His conduct was extreme and outrageous."

"He doctored the tape."

"—Three: You suffered distress."

Well, no fucking shit. "I am in _extreme_ distress."

She takes a deep breath. "And four: His act caused your distress."

"He doctored the motherfucking tape, Rebecca."

She's amused. "You sound upset."

"Do I? He doctored the tape and he gets to sue us? I gave him a bad job recommendation 'cause he doctored the tape and he gets to sue me? The people who want tort reform, they got a point."

"Yes."

And he's off, ranting about the irons and the shower caps and pudding, because _really_, either everyone's a fucking idiot and the world's doomed, or lawyers just think they're all fucking idiots and the world's doomed. "Do we really have to slow down for these people?" he finally concludes.

"Leona's leaving the decision to Reese."

He stills. "I know."

"That's not what you wanted."

He deflates further, takes a seat. "I don't know what I want. I want to keep doing the news. _Here_. With Elliot for Charlie. Next to Sloan. I want to keep arguing with Mac and Will," he pauses. "I want Dantana to iron his clothes while wearing them." They both laugh a little.

"Can someone _please_ tell me what's going on?"

He jumps up. Fucking fucking-A. "Sloan," he says. She raises her eyebrows and purses her lips expectantly.

Rebecca glides up. "I should go," she says coolly, slinks out the door like a cat.

"You need to tell me what's going on," she says, her arms crossed. "_Now_, please. Because I have like 90 seconds to get you back to the control room."

"Then we should go."

"Donald Blaine Keefer, I am not leaving until you tell me."

He sighs. "I'm being sued."

"We're all being sued."

"Not all of us. Just me. Jerry's filing a separate suit against me. Tortious interference."

"What contract does he claim you interrupted?" she asks, and he's reminded — fuck — that his wife was raised by a lawyer, and she probably knows a few things.

"He was applying for a job. I got a call for a recommendation from Kickstarter, and I may have called him a sociopath, despite the fact that I have no clinical background with which to make this diagnosis, which is apparently, you know, a problem. I don't really remember the call, since it was right around the time of —"

"Why is this a big deal?" she asks bluntly.

"Because he's _suing_ me. And it's for twenty _million_ dollars. We have an apartment to close on this weekend! Among other life things."

"Did you ask Rebecca to indemnify you?"

"What?"

"This is a tactical move; he's going for you first, but his lawyers probably are going to just start suing everyone individually for leverage. She needs to indemnify you from any harm. You were an ACN employee discharging your duties: If you hadn't told him that and Jerry would've plagiarized, Kickstarter could've sued you and ACN for not warning him that Jerry had a history of flagrantly unethical behavior. You were _protecting_ ACN; they can indemnify you."

"What does that mean?"

"Sign a contract and agree to hold a party — you — harmless, essentially. Hell, your ACN contract might do this already. They would absorb fees and any losses, but they won't lose, since there aren't any _witnesses_ to this call — there aren't are there?"

"No."

"Right. So they won't lose, and it tactically blocks their strategy. You need to request that ACN indemnify you, and the suit will basically go away. A judge would throw this out in ten seconds."

"So we wouldn't have to pay."

"_No. _Have you listened? ACN will cover it."

"You're sure about this?"

"If they don't, we're suing them."

He kisses her deeply then.

She pulls back. "You need to go produce things." Then a Look crosses her face. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"What?"

"You knew about this before now. You knew about this when I came to get you for McAvoy's last stand. Why did you wait?"

"Why did I wait? Sloan, it's a little busy around here. You're in the middle of a broadcast. _I'm_ in the middle of a broadcast."

"So you were producing me?" she says. "Keeping me calm for a broadcast."

"What?" he gapes. "What? I was … this was not the time."

"You have to _tell me_ things. We're _married_."

"Right, and I was _going_ to tell you, just, you know … _not_ here. You're on the air, I'm in the middle of production, it's not exactly _quiet_."

"You were going to tell me eventually?"

"_Yes,_" he says emphatically.

"But _after _you handled it," she says, like that just proves her point. He suspects that whatever answer he had given, it would have reinforced whatever she's trying to say.

"What?" he asks, clueless.

"You were going to handle it first."

"Well clearly _not_, since you figured out the indemnification thing."

"You were figuring out a solution," she says.

"I mean … I knew first since someone is suing _me_? So I was told first?" he's becoming completely confused.

"We're back in 30," Jenna runs by.

"You need to go and be on air and do your job," he says, gesturing to the studio.

"Yeah, yeah. This isn't done, mister."

"Is it ever?" he mutters weakly when she's back in her seat, rolling his eyes heavenward.

As soon as they're through the segment, she says, "Don, I'd like you to flip me off the public channel so that we can have a quick chat."

"Oh, for crying out loud — go _talk it out_," Mac spits over the headset. "Both of you, just go to Don's office, now." Sloan slides off her stool, obliging and imperious.

"For the record, I'm not —"

"_JUST GO_," Mac bellows. She's a little tense. As an understatement. "And I want 90 seconds on the gender gap when you get back!"

"Ok, for the record, I'm not sure why _you're_ mad at _me, _when I think we can all agree this is Jerry fucking _Dantana's_ fault," he rambles as he enters his office. She's standing up, staring at the _Sweet Smell of Success_ poster on his wall. He's always liked that movie.

"I'm mad because you're treating me like an anchor on something where you should clearly be treating me as your wife," she says.

"You think I should have dropped everything, yanked you off the air, pulled you aside, the _second_ I found out about the suit from Rebecca? You think it was that simple? Is that what you're saying, that it was that simple?"

"Yes! That is exactly what I am saying."

"I'm going to have to ask that we agree to disagree then," he says, "Because it's _rough_ out there, Sloan. You're all going to fucking hell in a clown car, and Will's the … clown-in-chief. As the executive producer on the goddamn broadcast, I also need to watch out for the integrity of the show and make sure one of our main anchors doesn't have a fucking _meltdown_ on air. And as your husband, I'm not going to _blindside_ you on one of the most important nights of your career!"

"That would be all well and good if I thought timing was your primary motivation here," she says, her voice a little elevated.

"What the fuck do you think my primary motivation _is_?" he yells right back.

She pauses, her voice quiet. "To fix this for me. Like how you keep checking up on me."

"What the fuck does that actually even mean?"

She rolls her eyes. "You try and take care of things. You're a producer; I don't think you can help it. Your first instinct is to figure it out and then come to me with a plan and then take care of it. Take care of _me_." She doesn't mean it in a flattering way.

He sighs, because his desire to fix things is really what most of their arguments boil down to — that and how goddamn stubborn she is sometimes. "Can't we just chalk this up to me being the guy?" he jokes.

"No, that's bullshit. We're in this together, so tough luck, pal. I need to know you'll let me into decisions," she says, biting the bottom of her lip.

"You need to know _now_?" he asks, gesturing around. "Cause we're kinda in the middle of something here …"

"Yes!" she says. "I'm _here_, we're _married_. We need to be able to talk about things."

"Alright, then, do you want to talk about Genoa and why it's affecting you so much?"

She gapes. "It's affecting all of us —"

"Obviously, I just got sued for flying off the handle at this guy. But you're the one who has to be on air, and it's a lot of pressure, and it's upsetting you, and you won't let me help there so —" he gestures, slightly helplessly, "I guess I'm trying to help over here. Yes, there were multiple reasons, one of which was work and another of which was the fact that, yeah, I like to fix things and I like to have a plan, because I'm good at that, I'm good at being the guy with the plan. But you're _freaking_ me out, Sloan, with how much you're freaking out. You're stressing out about enough, I took that off your plate."

"We need you," Jenna says, popping her head in. "Back in 30. Sorry."

"Be right there," Don calls. "We'll talk later," he says, pushing pause the argument and trying to exit.

"Don, wait," Sloan calls, and he turns. She's up against him swiftly, pressing a somewhat out-of-character kiss to his lips. He reciprocates, placing his hand on her hip, drifting into the kiss for a second. "I'm sorry," she apologizes before rushing toward the studio.

The world explodes that night, like a glittering Roman candle searing through their lives, creating a before and an after. MacKenzie Morgan McHale McAvoy. He loves it. Reese decides to save their skins, too, and between all that and Obama winning re-election there's just a hell of a lot of champagne being consumed. Sometime around one a.m., half drunk on either alcohol or emotion, he wanders into his office, intent on finding his missing cell phone. Thankfully, it's on his desk.

"Hey," Sloan calls from the corner. "I'm down here."

He drops his phone. "What are you … What are you doing down here?"

"Just chilling," she says. "Waiting for you," she admits.

"You know, you knew exactly where I was. It wasn't that hard to find me." He crouches, then sits, next to her.

"I wanted some space. And to say I'm sorry," she smiles, takes his hand. "I trust you. And I should've trusted you."

He shrugs as she settles against his shoulder. "I shouldn't've played it off like that initially."

"Forgiven," she says, turning to kiss the dip where his neck meets his collarbone. "We'll be fine." She sounds like she's saying that mostly to herself. "The lawsuit'll get dropped. We'll sign for the apartment on Friday and eventually put my old place on the market, and then we can focus on getting Kenzie and Will down the aisle."

"Yeah, that's not going to be easy," he laughs.

"I just hope at _least_ one person asks her if she's pregnant. It's only fair," Sloan says. "Will did a pretty good job with the proposal, she says."

"As good as I did?"

"Well, he did say the words to her," she laughs. "But no, yours is still my favorite."

He laughs. "Thank you, I appreciate that." She chuckles too, before sighing deeply. "Hey. Do you want to talk about you've been so worried?"

She picks at a lint piece on his jeans. "It's not a new song, you know? I just … got rattled." She wrinkles her nose. "I think it showed on-air."

"If it did," (which it did), "nobody's going to remember tomorrow. And hey, I'm a pretty good listener. If you want to talk."

She smiles. "I feel a lot better now. I mean, I still think I fucked up. That we fucked up. Badly."

"Most of it was Jerry's —"

"I know. I agree. But I think we all have some culpability. And that's a lot to live with. But I'm not scared anymore, and I was for most of the night. Let's just stay here for a second, alright? This was actually a pretty good night, by the end of it all. And I like it here."

He smiles, because it was. They're essentially homeless, they're facing a lawsuit that _will_ humiliate all of them, and they're about to dump all the money they have into this apartment. There are a thousand and six reasons why this shouldn't be a good night. But their friends got engaged, they still have jobs — for now — and a warm, content Sloan is curled into his side.

He's a lucky guy.


End file.
